A Change In the Wind
by MCat711
Summary: Post-AWE fic. Norrington is returned to the world of the living. But he may no longer be the man his friends--or enemies--remember.
1. Chapter 1

****

prologue.

__

The deck rose and fell beneath his feet as the Dauntless crested the heaving waves, then came crashing down again. Rain slashed across his face and soaked through his uniform, chilling him to the bone. The wind howled through the riggings and ripped at the sails. It tore at him as if it would wrench him from his feet and plunge him overboard, leaving him to the judgment of the uncaring sea.

Commodore Norrington faced the wrath of the hurricane, and would not yield.

He heard his lieutenant shouting behind him, heard the yells of the crew as they fought with all their strength to keep the ship on course.

"Sir!" Gillette pleaded again, his voice barely audible above the crash of the waves, the inhuman scream of the wind. "We can't sail through this! We must turn back!"

Norrington slitted his eyes, feeling an all-too-familiar fury welling up within him. Once again, the Black Pearl had outsailed the Dauntless. Once again, Jack Sparrow had outwitted and outmaneuvered him, leaving him a failure...

"No," Norrington said, his voice low and dangerous.

Without turning around, he could sense Gillette's bewilderment. "Commodore..."

"NO!" He whirled around to face his lieutenant, rage etched across his rain-drenched face. "Not this time! This time we have them! Now carry out my orders!"

Norrington turned back to face the storm as the biggest lightning bolt he'd ever seen split the sky in two. His eyes narrowed, and he gave a dangerous smile. The power of the storm seemed to surge in his blood, filling him with its inhuman glory.

Just once, he would act on passion alone, discarding reason and judgment. Just once, he would give in to the darkness inside him, and let it lead him to victory.

Just this once...

****

--

The voice was the last thing he heard.

__

"The Admiral's dead..."

Then there was darkness, a confused jumble of speech, and a dull, distant pain that slowly ebbed away. Norrington was alone in a silent void, empty of thought and memory. He had a vague feeling he was waiting for something, although he couldn't tell what.

Gradually, sensation returned. He heard a soft sound of lapping water, and the faint call of a seagull. He felt something hard against his back, and could see a pale light through his closed eyelids.

Opening his eyes, Norrington found himself staring up at a featureless gray sky.

Looking to the left and right, he saw he was lying on his back in a small boat, barely large enough for him. A small lantern hung over the back of the craft, its yellow light wan and pale in the surrounding grayness.

He struggled to sit up, rocking the boat back and forth, water sloshing over the sides. He looked all around him in bewilderment, not knowing where he was or how he'd come to be there. The sea stretched from horizon to horizon in every direction. Except for the ripples his movement had caused, the water was as smooth as glass, unmarred by wind or wave. The sky above was dull and sullen, a flat roof of clouds hanging low overhead, obscuring any trace of the sun.

Breathing hard, Norrington struggled to remember what had happened. His last memory was of standing on board the Flying Dutchman. Memories came back to him in shards and fragments: the sound of steel on steel, Elizabeth screaming his name, the damp wood of the deck beneath his back, and a sudden, wrenching pain...

Gasping aloud at the memory, Norrington reached for his side. Then he received another shock as he got a good look at himself. His uniform was filthy and tattered, smelling of dirt and cheap rum. And it was his Commodore's uniform, not his Admiral's, even though that had been what he'd last worn. Running a hand over his face, his hand encountered what felt like weeks' worth of stubble. There was dirt on his hands, and his hair felt like it hadn't been washed or combed in ages.

"What happened?" he whispered to himself. "Where am I?"

A woman's voice, low and amused, answered his query. "You do not know?"

He whirled in place to face the sound, sloshing water into the boat again. His jaw dropped open in shock as he saw the woman who'd spoken. She was dark and elegant, her shoulders bare, dotted lines of makeup or tattoos accentuating her face. She stood gazing at him with her long, slightly tattered skirts gathered in one hand. Her dark eyes and black-toothed smile mingled amusement and contempt with a trace of disconcerting lust.

She was standing on the water.

Norrington closed his mouth and swallowed. Several possibilities passed through his mind--he'd gone mad, he was dreaming, he was feverish and hallucinating--and he found he didn't much care for any of them. He could hear gulls calling in the distance; a few of the white birds swooped into view, circling over the mysterious woman as if drawn by her presence.

Since he couldn't think of anything better, Norrington settled for asking the obvious question. "Who are you?"

She gave an idle shrug. "Men, them have many names for me," she replied, her accent musical and exotic. "Many call me Calypso." She put her head on one side, regarding him with a direct and superior stare, as if he were something she could crush under her heel. "It be as good a name as any."

"Calypso," he repeated quietly, lowering his gaze. He'd heard the name before, in tales and legends. He wondered why he should be seeing a vision of her now; if indeed a vision was what it was.

Since he'd already asked where he was and gotten no useful reply, he tried another tack. Gesturing down at his ragged, filthy garb, he asked, "Why do I look like this?"

Calypso appeared to find the question boring. "In the realm beyond the living world, your appearance be your soul's own choosing."

Norrington exhaled heavily. Now he could recall his last moments with greater clarity. He squeezed his eyes shut at the remembered pain of a steel blade ripping through his flesh, his own blood hot and wet against his skin.

And he remembered his final act, a sword thrust through Davy Jones' chest. He hoped the blow had been a fatal one, though he wasn't optimistic about it. And then darkness had claimed him...

Opening his eyes, he fought to keep his voice steady. "So I'm dead, then."

She put her head to one side, staring at him as if that was the most blindingly obvious statement she'd ever heard. "Yes."

"I see." He looked around, then asked rather bluntly, "Is this hell?"

The woman's dark eyes glimmered as a broad grin spread across her face. "Mmm. Would you like it to be?"

Norrington choked slightly. "Ah, no. Thank you." He hesitated, then opened his mouth as if to ask another question. However, she raised a hand to forestall him, and began to speak again.

"I have a task for you." She paused, still smiling. "James," --she pronounced it 'Jemms'-- "Norrington." She rolled his name around in her mouth as if deciding whether she liked the taste of it.

Despite the strangeness of the situation, Norrington couldn't help but feel a flicker of suspicion. "Why me?"

Calypso shrugged. "Why not you?" She walked closer to the prow of the boat, the fringe of her long dress swirling through the water. The gulls followed her, wheeling and calling.

"You don't want?" Her eyes narrowed. "I find someone else." She turned her back dismissively and began to walk away, to leave him alone and adrift on the endless sea...

"Wait!" He leaned forward, reaching out a hand. She stopped, and peered back over her shoulder, eyes glinting in triumph. "Wait...tell me what it is you want."

As if nothing at all had happened, she sauntered back towards him, one hand holding the side of her skirts. "You will find someone for me." She paused, then pronounced very deliberately, "Captain. Jack. Sparrow."

Norrington almost groaned aloud. "Sparrow," he repeated, dragging his hands across his face as if trying to wipe himself clean. "Of course," he observed bitterly. "I was never free of him in life, why should I be in death?"

Calypso waved a hand dismissively, unmoved by his complaints. "Witty Jack come see me time to time, take t'ings when him think I don't notice." She walked all around the boat, as easily as taking a stroll through a park, water sloshing along in her wake.

"A ring here, a coin there...I do not get angry. I laugh." She stopped, and whirled back to face him, skirts swirling around her.

"But this last time," she went on, her voice a sibilant hiss, "Jack steal something him should _not _have."

Norrington asked the obvious question. "What did he steal?"

Instead of answering, she held out her hand palm-down. A small globe of water, about the size of an egg, lifted itself free from the ocean's surface and floated up to her. Turning her hand palm-up, the globe floated and swirled inches above her hand. As Norrington watched, the globe darkened as if filling with ink. The undulating surface grew solid and hard, gleaming even in the dull gray light. All along the globe, he could see jagged white streaks, like hairline cracks; whether they were on the surface of the stone or glowed from deep within it, he couldn't tell.

She raised her eyes to meet his, and her expression darkened. "Him steal _this_."

"Ah." He was nonplussed, and hesitated before speaking up again. "So...what exactly _is_..."

Calypso made a slashing, irritated gesture with her free hand. "The stone, it contain a small portion of my power. That be all you need to know," she snapped, as though she was angry at him, though he didn't know what he could've done to provoke it.

With that, she flung the illusionary globe away. As it left her hand, it turned back into clear water, then rejoined the ocean with a small splash. "I want it back. So you find it, and bring it to me."

"I see." Norrington shifted position uncomfortably. "So, I retrieve this stone in exchange for...what, exactly?" She only regarded him with a cool, flat stare.

He went on, with a self-mocking smirk, "I do realize I'm hardly in the best position to drive a bargain, madam. But still..."

She seemed not to be paying attention to him as one of the gulls circled nearer. She cupped her hands before her, and the bird flew in and settled in her grasp, flapping its long gray wings. Finally, she answered without looking at him, "I send you back to the world of the living for t'ree days, so you may search. Once you bring me the stone..."

She shrugged, and held the gull in one hand, stroking the pristine white feathers on its chest with one long finger. "Stay in that world, return here, it mean not'ing to me."

Norrington dropped his gaze to the waterlogged floor of the tiny boat. It seemed the height of insanity to refuse a second chance at life. But his instincts warned him to think carefully before entering into a bargain with this being...whoever and whatever she was. He raised his eyes to her again; she was still cooing over the gull.

Finally, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, he asked in a flat voice, "Do pardon me for being a bit skeptical. But since it seems I'm already dead, and not much more can in fact be done to me..." She flickered her lidded gaze to him as he concluded, "What happens if I fail?"

She smiled again, showing her dark-stained teeth, but her eyes were hard. Without warning, she stabbed her finger into the feathery chest of the gull. The bird squawked and flapped wildly, then began to twist and shift, wings shrinking in on itself as its body coiled and lengthened. As Norrington watched in horror, white feathers flattened into glistening green scales, and a spiny blue-green fin sprouted along the length of its back, running from the tip of its pointed tail to the crown of its serpentine head. The creature's jaws parted, showing needle-like fangs as it hissed at him, slit-pupilled eyes flashing green fire.

Calypso stared at him over the serpent's head, her eyes flashing like the lightning of a summer storm. "Do _not_ fail."

Norrington's throat had become very dry. He tried to swallow, then scrambled away as she threw the creature down beside his boat. It gave one thrash of its tail, then vanished into the depths with a splash. "Aha," he replied, his voice tight and choked in his throat. Wondering if he wasn't utterly mad for doing so, he finally said, "Very well, then. I...accept your offer."

She strode towards him. The sky grew dark at her approach as the gulls whirled madly around her, calling in their raucous voices. "Then we make an accord," she whispered, and her smile was that of a predator closing in on its helpless prey. She leaned over him, pointing her finger at the center of his own chest.

His face a grimace of fear, Norrington scrabbled backwards to get away, rocking the boat violently. But he had nowhere to go, and she stabbed her finger into his chest, burning the bare skin where his tattered shirt hung open. With a grunt of pain, he grabbed her arm with both hands, trying to force her away. But she was too strong; he might as well have tried to move a mountain.

She laughed out loud and seized his shoulder with her free hand, holding him in an iron grip. The sky grew black as the wind rose to a gale, lashing her hair around her face. She said, "But first..." The skin on his chest started to smolder, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. "...I give you somet'ing to remember me by."

With a yell, he jerked back from the searing pain where her finger bored into his skin. His violent movement was too much for the boat, and he fell backwards into the water, the waves closing over his head. The icy shock of cold seemed to freeze him solid, and he thrashed and struggled his way back to the surface, lungs burning for air.

Sputtering and gasping, Norrington broke the surface and looked frantically in every direction. The sky was now dark and cloudless, glimmering with stars. Neither the small boat nor the mysterious woman were anywhere to be seen.

"W-wait!" he shouted, shivering violently in the bone-chilling cold. "How will I find you?"

Although he saw nothing, a bodiless voice whispered in his ears, _Come to the sea, and I will find **you**. _Then there was nothing but the crash of the waves, and a sound of fading laughter blown away on the wind.

The center of his chest burned even through the cold, as if scalding water had been poured onto his skin. However, he had no chance to look down at himself, as his attention was diverted by something large and dark rising to the surface not far from him. A tremendous swell of water rose beneath him, picking him up and throwing him backwards as if he were no more than a rag doll. Fighting to keep afloat, he could only stare in horror as a ship burst from beneath the surface and crashed to a halt atop the waves, water streaming down its sides and dripping from its sails like a self-contained rainstorm.

An icy spike of terror stabbed into Norrington's heart. _Jones!_ If the Flying Dutchman had found him, it was over, he was finished...

But even in his panicked state, something about the ship struck him as odd. It was much cleaner than he remembered it, for one thing, and the shouting and gesturing figures atop the deck actually appeared to be human. As the waves crashed over his head again, he could see the crew pointing in his direction, and hear them calling for their captain. Sure enough, Norrington saw a figure approach the railing, and lean forward to stare down at him.

"Ahoy there!" the young man called, in a voice that definitely did not belong to Davy Jones. "Do you need help?"

Norrington sputtered and gulped as salt water filled his mouth. Spitting it out, desperately treading water, he demanded incredulously, "Do I need...!" He went under again, surfaced, spat, and finally managed to shout, "Of c-course I need help, you stupid..."

He froze in mid-sentence, and his eyes widened as he finally realized who he was talking to. "You..."

He didn't know whether to scream in outrage or burst out laughing. Finally, he settled for bellowing at the top of his lungs as the other man stared down at him in utter bewilderment:

"Could you p-please...throw me a _bloody _rope..._MISTER _Turner!!"

****

--

Some time later, Norrington sat upon the deck of the Flying Dutchman, wrapped in a heavy blanket and grasping a cup of hot tea that had somehow or other been acquired for him. He drained the dregs of his cup, then wiped his drenched, clinging hair out of his face.

"So," he began, his voice steeped in skepticism. "Davy Jones is dead, and you, Mister Turner, are now the captain of this rather unique vessel."

Will Turner looked down at him. Although his appearance hadn't changed, he seemed taller than Norrington remembered him, and somehow older. "That's right," he replied, his voice neutral.

"And you transport souls between the worlds of the living and the dead."

Will nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, where a vivid red scar showed against the skin beneath his half-open shirt. "Yes."

"Of course." Norrington sighed and set the cup down, shifting position as he wrapped the blanket around himself. "Quite frankly, I don't believe anything at all could astonish me at this point."

Norrington tried to rise, and Will extended a hand to help him up. For a moment, he was spitefully tempted to refuse, but exhaustion overruled his pride. Grabbing the offered hand, he struggled to his feet and shrugged free of the blanket. Every inch of him ached, although he supposed he should be grateful to feel anything at all. But it was hard to be happy about being alive when he felt like he'd been beaten with hammers, then sunk to the bottom of the ocean in the bargain.

He had a thought, and his expression grew downcast. "And you and Elizabeth are..."

Will replied quickly, but a bit sadly, "Married, yes."

"Ah. Well, congratulations." He turned a mocking gaze to the other man, and wasn't entirely unsatisfied to see Will looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. "It certainly took you long enough."

Will cracked a smile at that. "Yes, I suppose it did." Changing the subject, he asked, "So what about you? You say Calypso ordered you to return to the world of the living?"

"Apparently so." Norrington looked around at the bustle that surrounded him, and felt a pang of regret for the time when he would have stood on the deck of his own ship, keeping everything around him in good order. Realizing the other was still watching him, Norrington went on dryly, "It seems I need to find a certain pirate of our mutual acquaintance."

Will's brow furrowed. "Jack?" he guessed. "Jack Sparrow?"

Norrington smirked. "Excellent deduction, _Captain _Turner." He made the title sound like he was extending Will a great courtesy by using it.

Will apparently decided to let that pass, but still looked quizzical. "What does Calypso want with Jack?"

"She..." Unintentionally, his hand moved to the center of his chest, and he grabbed his shirt front, pulling it closed. "She just...wants to ask him something. That's all."

To his chagrin, Norrington realized Will wasn't quite stupid enough to miss either the evasiveness or the gesture. "What happened there?" he asked, pointing to Norrington's chest.

"Nothing," he retorted, a bit too quickly, his hand tightening even more.

Will gave him an arch look. "Nothing," he repeated skeptically.

Norrington was spared the effort of thinking up a suitable lie (or insult) as a voice called, "Captain!" Will excused himself and headed for the helm, giving Norrington the opportunity to lean back wearily against the railing, out of sight of most of the crew. Darting his eyes back and forth to make certain no one was watching, he loosened his grip, allowing his shirt to fall open, and looked down at his chest.

Directly over his heart, the black shape of a winged, serpent-like dragon was seared into his skin. The mark was about the length of his finger, the creature coiling in a looped S-shape, fanged jaws parted in a snarl or a scream. It no longer hurt him, but Norrington shuddered all the same. Rubbing at it with his finger, he was unsurprised that it showed no signs of coming off. He muttered to himself, "Something to remember you by, indeed..."

"Doing all right, Admiral?"

Norrington jumped guiltily as a low, gravelly voice roused him from his thoughts. An older seaman was walking up to him. The man's deep-set eyes mingled amusement with concern as he pushed a few strands of long, stringy hair back under his cloth cap. Something about him seemed familiar, but Norrington couldn't recall where he'd seen him before. "You seem a little preoccupied, there," the man observed.

"I'm all right," Norrington replied, a bit defensively, hastily closing up his shirt. "And you would be...?"

The older man shrugged. "Call me Bootstrap. Most everyone does." He looked Norrington up and down. "So. Headed back to the world, are you?"

"Hmmph." Norrington gave a mocking half-smile. "I certainly hope so." Then he blinked as he caught up with the conversation. "Wait. Did you call me 'Admiral'?"

Bootstrap looked sorrowful, and strangely guilty. "Should I not?"

Norrington gave a heavy sigh. "I suppose not. In truth, I'm not entirely sure who--or _what_--I am any more." He tried to keep his voice from shaking, and didn't quite succeed.

The older pirate looked at him with sympathy for a moment, then gave him a hearty backslap. "Well. If you're going back, you'll need this."

He held out a sword and belt, and Norrington looked at them for a moment before cautiously accepting them. He drew the sword from its scabbard and looked it up and down with an appraising air.

"Not as fine as you're used to, I'm sure," Bootstrap observed. "But it should serve, should you have need of it."

Sheathing the sword, Norrington looked warily at Bootstrap while fastening the belt around his waist. "Please don't think me ungrateful, but why would you want to help me?"

"Ah. Well." His eyes grew downcast again. "All of us have our sins to atone for, Admiral."

And that seemed to be all the explanation Bootstrap planned to offer, as he looked away and gave a summoning whistle, waving his hand at a nearby sailor. "Maccus!" As the other man approached, Bootstrap ordered, "Tell the captain our guest is ready to set off."

"Aye-aye, Mister Turner." The scraggly, squint-eyed man flashed Norrington a smile that was disconcertingly like the toothy grin of a shark, then headed towards the helm. Norrington blinked, and gave Bootstrap a bewildered look.

"Mister _Turner_?" he repeated.

Bootstrap only smiled, and gave Norrington's shoulder a reassuring shake. "Take care of yourself." Then he nodded towards Will, turned, and walked away without another word.

As Will approached, he glanced at the sword belt Norrington wore. He raised an eyebrow at the sight, but made no comment. "So. I'd say your best bet for finding Jack is to get on board the Black Pearl."

"Ah. As simple as all that, is it?" Norrington turned a skeptical gaze towards Will. "Very well, then. How do we find the ship?"

Will put his head slightly to one side. With infuriating calmness, he replied, "We don't need to. I already know where the Pearl is."

Norrington snorted. "Of course you do." He turned away, and ran his hand idly up and down the ship's mast. "And undoubtedly your newly acquired powers can take us there in the blink of an eye."

"Well..." Norrington looked back to see Will gazing thoughtfully at the mast. "Although I've never actually tried this with another person..." he said, almost to himself.

"Never actually tried _what_?"

Will looked back at Norrington, and seemed to reach some kind of decision. "Come with me."

Before he could protest, Will grabbed his arm and Norrington found himself dragged forward towards the mast...

...and then _into _the mast...

...and _through _the mast...

****

--

Gagging and retching, Norrington stumbled forward, falling to his knees. White spots swirled behind his eyes as he fought back the indescribable sensation that he'd just swallowed an entire tree. Rubbing his arms as if to make certain they were still attached, he turned a shaky glare back towards Will, who stood sharply outlined against the light of a full moon.

Will looked down at Norrington, appearing quite pleased with himself. "I wasn't really sure that would work," he admitted.

"You..." Norrington's voice was scratchy as he gagged again, stumbling to his feet and rubbing at his throat. "Turner!" he snarled, lunging forward to grab Will by his shirt. "If you EVER do that again...!"

Unperturbed by his fury, Will merely nodded politely, offered, "Good luck," then stepped back into the mast and vanished from sight.

Norrington jerked his hand back, then exhaled deeply in frustration. "I hate that man."

Stepping back and taking a long look around, he saw he was indeed standing on the deck of the Black Pearl. The moon was bright against a streaky field of clouds, highlighting every rope and beam in stark, gleaming white. The ship creaked and rocked gently in the quiet of the night. No one seemed to be on deck, except an ancient, weathered pirate with a blue-and-yellow parrot on his shoulder.

The old man stood at the helm, looking back at Norrington with a quizzical air, as if disheveled individuals manifesting out of ship's masts was unusual enough to get his attention, but not enough to be alarmed about. The parrot fluttered its wings and squawked, _"Awk! Strange doings afoot, matey!"_

"You have no idea," Norrington muttered in reply. Since the old pirate seemed to be offering neither aid nor resistance, Norrington turned his attention to the captain's cabin. Soft golden light shone through the windows, indicating candles were lit within. Most likely Sparrow would be inside. _Unless, _he thought with a sardonic half-smirk, _he's sleeping off a bout with the rum somewhere._

At that moment, he heard voices from below; they sounded like they were bickering about something. As a pair of figures climbed into view from below decks, he blinked in surprise. Something about the two portly, awkward-looking pirates seemed familiar...

"Murtogg?" he asked in astonishment, as he finally recognized them. "Mullroy? What are you doing here?"

At the sight of him, the pair fumbled with their weapons and rushed towards him. "Oi!" the darker and heavier of the two bellowed, aiming his pistol at Norrington. "You're not supposed to be on board here, mate!"

"Aye, avast!" the other added, trying to look fierce and piratical, and not entirely succeeding.

His companion turned to stare at him as Norrington sighed heavily and ran a hand over his face. "Of course," he said. "Of course you're here. Why wouldn't you be?" He closed his eyes and chuckled, a sound which caused the two erstwhile pirates to exchange nervous glances.

"After all," he continued, looking them both over, "no doubt one day every man, woman and child ever born will have done duty on board the Black Pearl." They only stared at him over their weapons, looking progressively more uneasy, as if at any moment he might sprout fur and fangs and lunge for their throats.

Norrington gave them a long, tired stare. "You don't know who I am, do you."

They shook their heads. "Ah well," Norrington went on. "Do stand aside, gentlemen. I believe I have an appointment with my once and future captain."

He made as if to walk past them, but they bustled around and blocked his way. "Er, sorry, can't let you do that, sir." Murtogg looked apologetic, but added, "We can't let just anyone walk in on the captain, you see."

"Ah." Norrington nodded gravely. "Well, in that case..."

Without warning, he seized the hapless sailor by his shirt, dragging him forward until their eyes were level. Murtogg winced and dropped his gaze in the face of his wrath.

"I am having a _very _bad night," Norrington growled through clenched jaw. "And if you don't clear off this instant, I will personally fry your guts up and eat them for breakfast. Understood?"

"Y-yessir!" They both nodded frantically. Norrington released his victim, and they both stood aside to let him pass. "Right you are, sir! Sorry, sir!"

Norrington took a deep breath, then smoothed down his rumpled clothing out of sheer habit, not that it did much good. "As you were, gentlemen." His tone was so commanding that they actually saluted as he walked between them, then lowered their hands with sheepish looks. As he crossed over and placed his hand on the door, he heard them begin to converse behind him in low, agitated voices.

"That couldn't be Commodore--I mean Admiral--Norrington, could it?"

"'Course not," the other whispered back. "Admiral was killed on board the Dutchman, poor soul. Remember?"

"Ah, right." There was a pause, and Norrington hesitated in the act of opening the doors, listening with morbid curiosity. "Looks a bit like him though, doesn't it?"

"Nah, not at all," the other replied decisively. "Besides, the Commodore was taller."

Norrington shook his head with a sardonic smile, pulled open the door, and stepped inside. As he started to pull the door shut, he heard the two sailors continuing their weighty philosophical debate:

"Supposing he had a brother? The Commodore, I mean? He never mentioned if he did."

"Oh, on close personal terms with the Commodore, were you?"

"How d' you mean?"

"Well, do you suppose _Commodore _Norrington would've just _happened _to stroll by one day and say something like, 'Nice day, gentlemen, have I ever told you that I happen to have a brother, only he doesn't look a bit like me'?"

"Umm...what?"

Any further scintillating observations were mercifully cut off as he closed the door firmly behind him.

****

--

Norrington stood inside the captain's cabin of the Black Pearl, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. A few golden candle flames glowed in warm contrast to the cool blue radiance of the moonlit windows. The center of the room was dominated by a large, round table, covered with books and charts and maps of all kinds, along with several instruments Norrington recognized, and some he didn't. And sprawled backwards in a chair, hat pushed low over his forehead and booted feet up on the table, with one dangling hand clutching a half-empty bottle, was Captain Jack Sparrow himself.

He was snoring.

Norrington stood for a moment, watching the other man in silence. It would be so easy to kill him, a black thought whispered in his mind. Walk up behind him, slit his throat in the darkness, be rid of him forever...

...but no. _No matter how far I've fallen_, he told himself firmly, _I am not a murderer. _Jack snorted and mumbled something, reaching up with his free hand to rub at his nose, then plunged back into sleep again.

Norrington looked around the cabin. _What now?_ he asked himself. He could search the cabin and hope Calypso's stone was somewhere to hand. However, the odds of that seemed unlikely. And no matter how soundly Sparrow was sleeping, his presence probably wouldn't go unnoticed for very long.

Besides, Norrington reasoned, if Jack knew the value of the stone, he'd keep it hidden and protected. And if he _didn't _know, he might have already sold or bartered it somewhere, in which case a search would be futile anyway.

Well, he decided, there was nothing for it. He needed to know whether Jack even had the stone before he could proceed any further. However, he quietly unsheathed his sword...he didn't want things to come to violence, but he was no fool, either.

Sword in hand, he walked to the side of the table, and stood looking down at Jack. Norrington reached out with his free hand and prodded Jack in the shoulder, grimacing with distaste as if he'd had to touch some foul matter. The pirate continued to snore away, oblivious. Norrington cleared his throat loudly, but achieved no response.

"Captain Sparrow," he said aloud, more insistently.

"Hrrm?" Jack shifted position, yawned, muttered, "No, no more cabbages for me tonight, thank you, Dulcie," and promptly fell to snoring again.

Norrington stared at him a moment longer. Then he drew himself up, took a deep breath:

"JACK SPARROW! YOU ARE _UNDER ARREST!!"_

Jack burst from his chair like a scalded cat, yelling and waving frantically and fumbling for his sword. By time he got it out and swung wildly at whatever assailants his imagination had conjured up, Norrington blocked it with a casual wave of his own weapon.

Jack stared wide-eyed at this intruder for a moment. Then he blinked once, then twice. Looking quizzical, he put his head on one side, then the other. Norrington raised his eyebrows at this examination, but offered no comment.

"Oh," Jack finally said. He narrowed his eyes. "Thought you were dead," he accused, as if Norrington was somehow letting him down by being otherwise.

"I was."

"Oh," Jack said again. Finally, he gave a heavy sigh. "Coming back from the dead must be the fashionable thing these days. Seems just about everyone's doing it."

The pirate flickered his eyes to their crossed swords. "Are we going to start fighting, then?" he asked, as if he found the prospect tedious.

Norrington's expression betrayed nothing. "Are we?"

Jack hesitated a moment, then lowered his blade. Norrington locked stares with him for a moment, then slowly lowered his own.

"Fine, fine," Jack said, sheathing his sword and sitting back down with a heavy thump. Glancing down, he picked up the fallen bottle and took a deep swig. Gesturing towards another chair, he sighed, "Go on and have a seat, then, Mister formerly-dead former-Commodore Norrington."

Jack indicated the bottle with his free hand. "I'd offer, but..." he began, then appeared to think things over. "No, actually, I wouldn't."

Norrington pulled up a chair and sat down as Jack took another long draught of whatever was in the bottle. Jack swallowed and wiped his mouth. "Dare I ask how you came to be aboard my fine vessel?"

Norrington gave a sardonic half-smirk. "I obtained the gracious assistance of the captain of the Flying Dutchman."

"Ah. Of course." Jack grimaced. "And how is dear William these days?"

Norrington paused. "Insufferable."

Jack nodded. "I thought so."

Any further conversation was forestalled as the door burst open and a tall pirate with a wide-brimmed hat came striding in. "What's all the noise?" he demanded. "I heard--"

The other pirate cut himself off and reached for his sword as Norrington turned in his seat to face him. Norrington was on the verge of drawing his own weapon when Jack waved a hand idly and said, "Ah, Hector. So good of you to join us."

The tall pirate stared incredulously as Jack looked back at Norrington and asked, "I don't believe you know _Captain_ Barbossa?" Jack said the word "captain" as if it was the foulest vulgarity that had ever crossed his tongue, which would have been an impressive achievement.

Norrington coolly looked Barbossa up and down. "Only by reputation." Looking Barbossa straight in the eye, he observed, "I've heard you're the only pirate in the world as vile and depraved as Jack Sparrow."

The tall pirate narrowed his eyes to slits and gave a cunning smile, not moving his hand from his sword hilt. "_Far _more vile and depraved than Jack Sparrow, I assure ye."

Jack gestured towards Norrington. "Allow me to introduce James Norrington," he went on, as if they'd met at a society party somewhere. "One-time Commodore of the British Royal Navy--" Barbossa tensed at the 'British Royal Navy' part, while Norrington tensed at the 'one-time' part-- "Subsequently dead, currently cluttering up my ship courtesy of the _immortal _William Turner." He managed to infuse the adjective with a world's worth of irony and disdain.

Barbossa shook his head in disgust. "Presumptuous whelp."

Finally seeming to decide that Norrington wasn't a threat--or at least not an immediate one--Barbossa took his hand from his sword and strode around to the opposite side of the table from Jack. Leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest, he squinted at Norrington with a highly dubious air. "Dead, then, were ye?"

Norrington only nodded, not seeing any point in denying it. Lowering his eyes, his attention was drawn by a fine-looking piece of parchment amongst Jack's clutter, covered with graceful, curving runes in a script he didn't recognize. Barbossa went on, "So I take it we have young Master Turner to thank for restorin' you to the realm of the living?"

"No," Norrington replied, distracted, "that was apparently the doing of someone named Calypso..."

Even without raising his eyes, Norrington could tell the atmosphere in the room had suddenly become about twenty degrees colder. He looked up. Jack was staring at him with a mortified expression. Barbossa's face, however, had become studiously neutral, yet somehow still conveyed the impression that one wrong move on Norrington's part would be his last.

"Was it, now," Barbossa observed, slowly and deliberately. Shifting his weight as if to move into striking position, he went on, "And why would she do a thing like that, do you think?"

"I..." Norrington's mind was racing. Involuntarily, his hand began to rise to the mark on his chest, but he willed it back down again. "I...don't know." The silence that met this statement seemed to indicate something more was expected of him.

"Look," he began, exasperated. "I'm the last person you should be asking for answers." _That at least is the truth_, he told himself wryly. "All I know is after I...died...I found myself alone, adrift at sea, in a small boat with a lantern."

The expressions of both pirates instantly changed to ones of recognition. Norrington sensed that his description rang true to them, though how that could be he didn't quite fathom. He went on: "This woman came to me, surrounded by gulls, walking on the water."

"Go on," Barbossa said, his tone courteous, yet insistent.

"And..." Norrington hoped they couldn't see him sweating; lying under pressure wasn't one of his talents. "It's...all a bit confused after that. I wound up in the water, and then the Dutchman came crashing up from under the surface, right beside me..."

Jack's mouth quirked. "Young William has inherited Jones' flair for the dramatic entrance, it would seem."

Hardly daring to hope he'd convinced them, Norrington concluded, "I was brought on board, then Turner used some trick to pull me through the mast and bring me here." The memory made him shudder; he guessed he'd be having nightmares about it for the rest of his life. "So here I am. The end." He glared at them with a confidence he didn't feel, as if daring them to question his wild tale.

Jack sighed and shook his head. He took a swig from the bottle; then, apparently finding it empty, shook it with a disappointed frown and set it aside. "Well, Mister Norrington," he observed, deadpan, "I highly doubt you possess enough imagination to invent such a story. Ergo, I almost half-suspect you must be telling the truth."

Barbossa, however, didn't seem convinced. "Why did Turner bring you here to my ship?" he asked.

Jack sputtered with outrage, but before he could protest, Norrington hastily replied, "I asked him to. I...didn't know where else to go."

He sighed, and slumped in his chair in what he hoped was a convincing display of humility and defeat. "I know the world considers me dead. No one I knew in life would recognize me now, or take me in." He had to stop, as he was starting to depress himself.

He looked up, and concluded with a flicker of his old scornfulness, "This was the only ship I thought might be pathetic enough to hire me as a crewman. Again."

The two pirates exchanged glances. Finally, Barbossa shrugged, as if conceding the decision to Jack.

"Well," Jack began, "as deeply moving as your tale of woe is, at present I find myself with as many potentially mutinous crewmen as I could possibly require." Jack flickered a glare to Barbossa at that last part.

"But--!" Norrington started to protest, although some part of him was secretly relieved.

"Jack, ye wound me," Barbossa observed blithely, examining his nails. "Have I not proven me worth to you time and time again?"

"Yes, and you've also stolen my ship more than once," Jack retorted. "The latter tends to outweigh the former, as it were." Then Jack seemed to recall what he'd originally been talking about, and turned back to face the sullen-looking Norrington.

"Therefore," Jack went on with a wave of his hand as if passing judgment, "I shall allow you to remain on board 'till we make port, seeing as I am not typically a walk-the-plank sort of captain." Jack aimed another glare at Barbossa which was met with a bland smile.

"However, once we arrive, I wish solely to see the back of you, and not for very long, at that." Jack's eyes narrowed. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Inescapably clear," Norrington muttered.

"Good!" Jack's tone indicated that the whole business had been concluded to his satisfaction. He stretched out lazily in his chair, plopping his feet on the table again. With an airy wave, he concluded, "Hector will show you out."

Norrington rose to his feet as Barbossa did likewise, but retorted, "I believe I can find it myself." With that, he turned and headed for the door, shoving it open perhaps a bit harder than was strictly necessary.

Back on board deck, he allowed himself several slow, deep breaths. _That could have gone rather more smoothly, _he told himself with a self-mocking smile. _Still, if it was an accomplished liar Calypso wanted, she shouldn't have chosen me._

Norrington looked all around the deck of the Pearl, effortlessly keeping his balance as the ship rose and fell in the waves. Despite all that had happened, it felt good to be on a ship again; out on the water was the only place he'd ever truly felt at home.

He looked up. The sky seemed lighter than it had when he'd come on board, and the stars had faded to a few twinkling points. Dawn was on its way.

Not far from him, a pair of pirates he vaguely recognized were engrossed in a card game, seated on opposite sides of a rough wooden crate. One was portly and balding with a fringe of long, unkempt hair around his domed skull. The other was scrawny and angular, with possibly the worst wooden eye Norrington had ever seen. The two seemed unaware of his presence, as they were involved in a heated discussion regarding precisely how many aces a typical deck of cards was supposed to possess.

As he shook his head in disgust, Norrington heard the cabin door open behind him. Glancing back over his shoulder, he was unsurprised to see it was Barbossa who'd emerged.

"Captain," Norrington offered, his voice coolly neutral.

Barbossa nodded in acknowledgement. Norrington was briefly startled as, seemingly out of nowhere, a small monkey appeared and sprinted up Barbossa's outstretched arm, coming to rest comfortably on the pirate's shoulder. "A word with ye, if I may?" Barbossa inquired politely, but something in his tone implied refusal wasn't really an option.

Norrington shrugged as the other approached. Barbossa smiled, then flung an arm around his shoulders in an avuncular fashion, but with just enough of a grip to indicate that Norrington wasn't going anywhere soon. "Mister Norrington," Barbossa began nonchalantly, "I be but a simple pirate."

Norrington tried to pull free of the other's grip as casually as he could, without any success. "Oh?"

"Aye." Barbossa turned to look at him, nearly whacking him in the forehead with the brim of his hat. "And so it do perplex me that Calypso should return ye to life solely out of the goodness of her heart, as such."

"Well..." he began, but was cut off as the tall pirate leaned in so Norrington got an excellent view of his discolored teeth and bloodshot eyes.

Barbossa's voice became a dangerous whisper. "She sent you back for some purpose." His grip on Norrington's shoulder tightened as the monkey chattered its teeth at him. "Did she not?"

Norrington only gave him a long, cold stare. "Perhaps."

Barbossa's expression turned calculating. "Aye, and therein lies the very crux of me dilemma."

_A simple pirate, indeed, _Norrington thought with a sarcastic expression. Barbossa released his grip, and Norrington rubbed his now-aching shoulder as the other walked away a few paces, then turned to face him again.

Barbossa went on, reaching up to stroke the monkey's fur, "You see, any purpose of Calypso's can scarce bode well for mortal men. Especially those she has no reason to recall with great fondness."

Norrington raised an eyebrow. "Managed to get on her bad side, did you?"

Barbossa's smile held no amusement. "And yet," he went on as if Norrington hadn't spoken, "should I see fit to thwart said purpose by killin' you, I may well bring the wrath of the goddess 'pon meself and my ship."

Norrington folded his arms across his chest. "_Your _ship? I was under the impression it belonged to Captain Sparrow."

Barbossa strode back to him, and his smile grew cunning as his voice lowered. "Aye. Jack be under that impression as well."

"I see." Norrington paused. "So what happens now?"

"Well, the way I be seein' it, we have ourselves two options." He looked at Norrington with an appraising air, as if wondering what price he would fetch on the open market. "The first be that you tell me, right now and in full, what it is you're _really _doin' here."

Norrington looked away, and briefly considered taking the pirate into his confidence. He might know where Jack was keeping the stone, and almost certainly would be agreeable to any action taken against his rival captain. But no...from what he could tell of Barbossa, he wasn't one to let a potentially valuable object walk off in a stranger's hands, either.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he finally said. "So what's the second option?"

"Ah, that one's far simpler." Barbossa snapped his fingers imperiously. "Pintel! Ragetti!"

The two pirates quickly terminated their card game and came bustling up. As his monkey squawked and chittered, Barbossa indicated Norrington with a jerk of his head and a broad sneer.

"Lock him in the brig."


	2. Chapter 2

Norrington found himself standing upon a raised platform, looking down at the gallows.

The wooden structure swayed and creaked in the wind, casting eerie shadows as streaks of cloud chased each other across a bulging, bone-white moon. The air was thick and heavy, leaving a taste of dirt and blood in his mouth.

He was bewildered to find himself back in the fort at Port Royal. Looking down at himself, he realized with a jolt that he was wearing his Admiral's uniform, as crisp and pristine as the day he'd first received it.

Looking up, he saw a shadowy hangman leading a long line of figures to the gallows. A ragged victim trudged heavily up the steps, hands bound before him. The hangman shoved the noose roughly around the man's neck, then stood back and swung the trap. The man kicked and jerked as the noose tightened around his neck, then went slack and dangled lifelessly at the end of the rope.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" asked a voice at his side.

Norrington turned to see Lord Cutler Beckett standing beside him. The smaller man didn't turn to face him, but stood gazing out at the scene with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of smug satisfaction. "Admiral James Norrington, scourge of piracy," he went on, in a tone of approval. "They carved that on your memorial, you know."

Before Norrington could speak, Beckett continued matter-of-factly, "Of course, not _all _of them were pirates." Another victim was struggling in the grip of the noose now; this one was a woman. "In fact, some of them were completely innocent. But still..."

Beckett took a step forward, out of the shadows where they stood and into the moonlight. His clothes became rotten and decayed, hanging off him in rags, and when he turned back to face Norrington, his face was a diseased, grinning skull. "One can hardly be bothered with such petty details in the pursuit of one's duty, eh?"

"No..." Norrington breathed out in horror as yet another victim was led to the noose. This one was a ragged child, an urchin barely twelve years old. "I didn't..."

"Didn't what?" Beckett interrupted, his lidless eyes staring from beneath the tatters of his tricorn hat, strands of his ruined wig dangling before his face. "Didn't know?" he scoffed, as the boy died like the others before him. "Or didn't _want _to know?"

The skeleton's jaws parted in an obscene laugh. "Watch well, my dear Admiral. I could never have accomplished it without you."

Norrington couldn't move, couldn't turn away, as he saw Jack Sparrow trudge into view up the steps of the gallows, hands shackled before him. Jack raised his head and sneered, "Well, well. Finally got what you wanted, eh? Much joy may it bring you, mate." With that, the noose was settled around Jack's neck. The trap swung, and with a sharp jerk, his body dropped and he kicked out his life at the end of a rope...

_No... _Norrington struggled to move, to speak, but he was frozen in place, couldn't so much as raise a hand to protest as Will Turner was next to climb into view. He was dressed as he'd been when Norrington had first encountered him, in his plain, dirty blacksmith's garb, and his hair hung down over his face as he turned accusing eyes to him.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" Will spat, raising his bound fists as the noose settled around his neck. "Will this make Elizabeth love you? Will she stand by your side as they lower me into my grave?"

The trap swung.

_No...!_

Then came Governor Swann, upright and dignified as he was led to his death. "Did you _really _believe I'd returned to England?" he accused, his voice haughty as the noose went over his head. "Were you too stupid to realize the truth? Or too blinded by ambition to see anything else?"

The trap swung.

"No...!" Norrington managed to protest, the word wrenched out from his tightened throat.

Then came Gillette, his faithful lieutenant from the Dauntless. "I trusted you, Commodore!" he accused, his voice shaking. "I followed your orders, and you led me to my death!"

"No!" Feeling like his legs were made of lead, Norrington struggled to take one step forward, then another.

The trap swung.

"Gillette! No!" he shouted, moving his legs through sheer willpower, growing closer to the gallows, reaching for his sword with glacial slowness. The shadowy figure on the platform was dragging a final victim into view, her dress tattered, her hair flying wildly in the foul, reeking wind...

"Elizabeth!" he screamed.

She raised her head, and looked at him with eyes filled with tears of hate. "You did this," she whispered, as her voice rose to a shriek of rage. "_You _did this! All of it! All of them died because of _you_!"

The hangman forced the noose around her neck.

The trap swung.

_"NO!!" _Norrington finally reached the hangman. "MURDERER!" he screamed, grabbing the figure by the shoulders, wrenching him around, raising his sword to kill.

A rotting, skeletal version of his own face stared back at him, and began to laugh, and laugh...

****

--

Norrington yelled aloud as he woke, waving his arms as if warding off some unseen evil. Breath heaving in his chest, he struggled upright and stared around at his surroundings.

He was sitting on a plain, uncomfortable cot against one wall of a small cell. A few inches of water sloshed back and forth across his boot toes as the ship rocked gently in the waves. Taking deep breaths to steady himself, Norrington remembered being brought down to the brig by the two cackling wastrel pirates. Looking towards the cell door, he was surprised to see it unlocked, in noted contrast to last night.

Wondering whether this was some sort of trick, he stood up from the cot, then carefully made his way to the door and pushed it with one hand. It swung open easily, and he stepped out. Glancing up, he saw someone standing at the top of the stairs that led up from the brig. It was a small man--_very _small--bald-headed and scowling. He held Norrington's sword and belt in his hands, and glared at him with undisguised suspicion.

Before Norrington could speak, the other man said, "Cap'n says you don't get these back till you leave." He indicated the steps with a jerk of his head. "Come on."

Having no real alternative, Norrington followed the small man, eventually emerging onto the deck of the Pearl. All around him, the ship bustled with activity. Looking out over the prow, he felt a jolt of recognition.

The docks of Port Royal lay spread out before him beneath the bright morning sun. For a moment, he felt a flicker of terror, as the sight brought back memories of his nightmare. But he shoved his feelings aside, and stared out over the place he'd long called home.

Yet it was different than he remembered it...dirtier, shabbier, less populous. And an infamous pirate vessel like the Black Pearl was allowed to dock unchallenged, in broad daylight? _Who is in charge here?_ he asked himself with disgust, looking up and down the docks for any presence of authority. There were a few red-coated soldiers lounging at the end of a pier, but they seemed willfully oblivious to what was going on right in front of them. In fact, they seemed more interested in ogling a couple of suggestively clad women than in anything else.

Fuming, Norrington had to fight down an impulse to stride down there and thrash the daylights out of the indolent laggards. _I have no more authority here than Sparrow does, _he reminded himself bitterly. Undoubtedly after Beckett's death, the influence of both the East India Trading Company and the British government had waned, leaving Port Royal to be overrun by the very scum he'd spent his life trying to wipe out.

Brooding on what had become of his beloved port city, he was oblivious to all else around him until he was rudely shoved aside.

"Look out, can't you?" a harsh voice demanded. Norrington almost stumbled as he sidestepped away from Pintel and Ragetti, who were struggling to carry a large crate between them. The former demanded, "Why don't you do something instead of standin' around like a knob?"

Before he could think up a suitable retort, another voice caught his attention. "So," Barbossa called, striding up to him with his ever-present monkey perched smugly on his shoulder. "It seems you know what to do with an open door."

Norrington snorted. "Well, I never was one to refuse an invitation." He looked around him, noting the absence of one figure in particular. "Where's Sparrow?"

Barbossa pointed. "Over there." Norrington shaded his eyes with his hand, and saw Jack standing on a neighboring pier. He was deep in animated conversation with a slender, dark-skinned woman wearing men's trousers and an oversized floppy hat.

Before he could ask questions, Barbossa took hold of Norrington's upper arm and pulled him around so they were facing each other. "Jack says to let you earn your keep while we're in port, then send you off. But if it be up to me," he finished in tones of quiet threat, "I'd gladly see you walk the plank."

"Well then," Norrington replied calmly, "I'm glad it's not up to you."

Barbossa curled his lip in a sneer. "Go where ye will, then, and take your unsaid purpose with you. But set foot upon my ship again, and you'll die a'fore ye take a second step. Understood?" The monkey squealed and rasped, bobbing its head up and down as if encouraging its master's bloodlust.

Norrington only nodded. Barbossa snapped, "Good," then pointed to the stack of crates that were gradually being hauled down to the docks. "Now make yourself useful. And mind you don't do anything I don't fancy the sight of." He patted his pistol's holster in a significant gesture.

Without comment, Norrington joined the rest of the crew in unloading their cargo. But after he'd set his burden down on the pier, he took the opportunity to watch Jack and his mysterious companion.

She was flanked by two men who seemed chosen both for their size and extreme lack of humor. Arms crossed over her chest, she fixed Jack with a flinty stare as he gestured and waved. Norrington couldn't hear what he was saying, but they seemed to be haggling over some merchandise Jack had brought her. A few small crates lay around them, as well as a large canvas sack from which Jack periodically withdrew some trinket or another, which the woman either accepted with a nod or refused with a head-shake.

He heard Ragetti's weird chuckle from behind him. "That's Anamaria," the other said in response to his unspoken question. "Captain of the Winged Fury. Drives a wicked hard bargain, I've heard tell."

"Aye," Pintel agreed. "And poor ol' Jack won't be gettin' what he _really _wants, eh?" Pintel nudged Ragetti in the side with his elbow, and the two of them guffawed at this attempt at ribaldry.

Norrington ignored them. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as Jack reached into the sack and withdrew, with great ceremony, a small, round black stone.

His heartbeat quickened at the sight. Jack and Anamaria seemed to be discussing the stone's price in increasingly heated tones. Finally she made what appeared to be a final offer, Jack flung up his hands in a dramatic sigh, and solemnly handed it over.

Then Barbossa's voice bellowed from atop the deck, "Back to work, ye filthy maggots! Or it's the lash you'll feel!"

Fuming silently, Norrington returned to his labors, wondering if he could make a break for it and grab the stone. But even if he got free of the Pearl, he'd have Anamaria and her bodyguards to deal with...and he was still unarmed until someone decided otherwise.

He didn't see Jack again until the Pearl was completely unloaded. The pirate captain came sauntering back with a jingling coin purse and the air of one who'd successfully accomplished grand larceny. Norrington waited on the pier in silence, all the while peering over Jack's shoulder towards the female pirate. If she boarded her ship with her cargo, he was done for. But luck seemed to be with him, as he saw her order one of her men back on board. The other walked behind her, carrying an armload of the plunder she'd bartered from Jack. They appeared to be heading into town.

Norrington barely paid attention as Jack spoke to him. "So, here's where we part ways, eh, former Commodore?" Without waiting for an answer, Jack went on, "All well and good, here's your lovely sword back, can't say as it was good seeing you again." Jack gestured to the diminutive bald pirate. He approached carrying the sword in both arms, still fixing Norrington with a suspicious glare.

As anxious as he was to be off, Norrington realized that to rush away would be to provoke unwanted suspicion. "Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked, taking his sword back and fastening the belt around his waist.

Jack looked to and fro. "No," he replied. "I'm here, my ship is here, and soon you won't be. So all seems to be in order..."

He trailed off as he noticed Norrington was holding his hand out palm-up. Jack scowled. "Oh, all right." Grudgingly, he reached into the bulging purse and brought forth a paltry number of very small coins.

"That's it?" Norrington demanded.

Jack smirked. "Still not thinking like a pirate, mate. If you want a fair wage, set your price _before _you do the job. Still..." With an attitude of saintly generosity, he added a single shilling to the tiny pile in Norrington's hand. "Go buy yourself a drink, eh? You could use one."

With that, he made shooing motions with his hands. "Go on, then. Off with you. Go stink up someplace else."

Pocketing his meager salary, Norrington smirked and gave a mocking bow. "As my captain commands."

Trying to walk as if he wasn't in any kind of hurry, he headed towards where he'd seen Anamaria and her companion disappear into town. He ignored Jack's shouts from behind, "And if you ever see William again, tell him no more dumping corpses on my ship! It's impolite!"

"If I ever see 'William' again," he muttered to himself as he quickened his pace through the crowd, "Your disapproval will be the _least _of his worries."

****

--

As it happened, Norrington would have a long wait in store before he could accomplish anything at all.

He'd followed Anamaria and her crewman to a small, cluttered shop in a slightly run-down part of the city. They'd entered the shop with an armload of plunder and exited some time later with a small, clinking bag and a shared look of smug satisfaction. Therefore, it didn't take much mental effort to deduce what had taken place.

Now Norrington waited, slouched down on the ground with his back against a wall. He kept a constant eye on the shop door through a gap in the stack of barrels that shielded him from prying eyes. From time to time, he glanced up at the sky, as if willing darkness to come faster. Although the part of him that was still sickened by what he'd become wished that nightfall would never arrive, thus sparing him the opportunity to do what he knew he had to.

_I did try to buy it honestly,_ he reminded himself with a scowl, trying to shore up his flagging sense of honor. _I can't help it if Sparrow didn't pay me enough to buy a handful of piss._ The store proprietor--a small, chubby man with a tremendous air of self-importance--had laughed at Norrington's paltry sum and ordered him out, with a threat to alert the authorities should he return. _As if I didn't just see you doing business with pirates, you overstuffed hypocrite, _he thought with no small amount of bitterness.

So he'd found himself this spot to waste out the rest of the day, and waited for the store to close for the night. He'd had some concerns about being recognized by passers-by, but he needn't have worried. Anyone who so much as glanced in his direction did so with nothing but suspicion and contempt for this unshaven vagrant slouched beside a stack of ale barrels.

Gloomily, Norrington recalled the time when he would walk these same streets with a contingent of sailors in step behind him, accepting the greetings and praise of nearly everyone he passed. Now he realized that all their acclaim was only for the uniform he wore. None of them had ever really seen the man who wore it.

The day was hot and stifling, and his mind wandered as he grew drowsy. With a trace of morbid humor, he wondered if the people of Port Royal had given Admiral Norrington a hero's funeral. _Perhaps I should visit my grave, _he mused with a twisted smile, as his eyes closed of their own accord. _And then get myself arrested for spitting on it._

His thoughts turned darker as he thought of the other tombstones that would share that cemetery. Gillette. Lefarbe. Young Wilkins, barely more than a lad. The gallant crew of the flagship Dauntless, cut short in their prime by a raging hurricane, and their own commander's madness.

_He _had survived the wreck, of course. Fate wasn't kind enough to let him go down to the depths with the rest of his men.

The day they'd stripped him of his commission, he'd felt like his soul had been ripped from his body. All that day and well into the evening, he'd wandered the streets like an empty husk, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. Everyone who passed him seemed, in his mind, to draw away in revulsion, as if he carried some deadly blight. At last, he'd found some nameless pub to drown in alcohol anything within him that could still feel.

He didn't remember where he'd slept that night. Or the next. Or the next...

With a start, Norrington came back to himself and realized it was night. Weariness must have overcome him, and he'd fallen asleep where he lay. He propped himself up with a wince of pain, as his lower back hadn't taken kindly to a day spent pressed against a stone wall.

All around him, the streets and buildings were dark, lit only by a flickering torch here and there. Quickly, he darted his gaze to the store he'd been watching. It was dark as well, although a window on the floor above was still lit. Presumably the owner lived above his store, and was preparing for bed. Luck seemed to be with him once again, as the light from upstairs burned for only a brief time, then went out.

Norrington waited a while longer, forcing himself to be patient. Finally, he rose to his feet, grabbing up a half-brick that lay nearby. Moving cautiously, he approached the store. He caught sight of his reflection in the window mounted in the center of the door, then grimaced and looked away. Peering back and forth down the length of the avenue, he raised the brick, then balked at what he was about to do.

_Go on, then,_ he told himself with resignation. _Add "destruction of property" to your burgeoning list of crimes._ With that, he steeled himself, and smashed in the pane. He darted his gaze around at the noise of tinkling glass, certain someone must have heard, but the only sound was a dog barking in the distance. Feeling well and truly committed to the criminal life now, Norrington reached in through the broken pane and fumbled to find the latch. The door swung open, and he took a cautious step inside, his boots crunching on the broken glass.

The interior of the tiny shop was dark and musty; the only illumination came from the window along the outside wall and the half-open door behind him. Following his shadow across the room, he moved towards the long wooden table along the back wall, which was piled high with more trinkets and outright junk than he could identify. The stone had been there this afternoon, but he couldn't see it now. His chest grew tight with anxiety; had he broken in for nothing? _Please, it must be here..._

...there. In the far back corner, between a rusted iron candelabra and an ugly ceramic lion with chipped paint, the small black stone lay innocuously against the dusty wood. He could see the tiny, jagged white lines crossing its surface, like streaks of lightning against an ink-black sky.

_At last, _he thought, shoulders sagging with relief. Eagerly, he reached for it. Then he hesitated; if this stone contained some aspect of the wild goddess's power, what would happen to him when he touched it? Finally, deciding he had no other choice, he braced himself and reached for it again.

Norrington grasped the stone firmly in his right hand, held it out before him...

...and that was all. There was no flash of light, no tingle of electricity, no sudden surge of terrifying power. The stone was neither warm nor cold nor unusual in any way; it felt simply as if he were holding a small, round, smooth, slightly heavy rock.

"Well," he muttered. "_That _was anti-climactic."

He stuffed the stone in his coat pocket without ceremony, then turned in place...

...and nearly walked straight into an extended blade.

Jerking to a halt, Norrington immediately reached for his own sword, but was discouraged from doing so as the blade moved closer to his heart. Then his assailant stepped forward from the shadows, into the light.

Captain Jack Sparrow wagged an admonishing finger. "Ah-ah-ah, former Commodore," he chided. "None of that, if you please."

Norrington raised his hands in surrender and let out a frustrated sigh. "How long have you been there?" he demanded.

"Long enough." Jack darted a glance towards Norrington's pocket. "See, as _deeply _convincing as your story was..." The way he said this left no doubt he meant the exact opposite. "...I couldn't help but wonder what you were really up to." Then he looked confused. "What _are _you really up to?"

"I suppose you wouldn't believe I've embarked upon a new career as a master burglar?" Norrington asked dryly.

Jack shook his head. "Not really."

"Very well." Norrington's shoulders sagged as he decided he had nothing to lose by telling the truth. He gestured towards his pocket. "If I may?" Jack shrugged, but didn't lower his sword. Slowly, Norrington reached in and retrieved the stone, holding it in his palm for Jack's examination. "Calypso ordered me to retrieve this. I have three--no, two days, now," he corrected, "to bring it to her."

"Oh?" Jack peered at the stone with curiosity, but no apparent recognition. "What's it do?"

Norrington looked skeptical. "Don't you know? You stole it from her."

"Did I? No I didn't." Jack looked furtive. "I don't know, it may have accidentally fallen in my pocket at some point. Purely unintentional, I assure you."

"Of course," Norrington replied acidly. "No doubt that happens to you all the time." He paused, then went on, "She said it contained some of her power...whatever that means."

Jack looked like he was going to inquire further, when his attention was diverted to the dark dragon-shaped mark on Norrington's chest, showing through his half-open shirt. "Here, that's new, isn't it?" He nudged the shirt flap aside with his blade, and peered at the brand with the interest of a connoisseur. "Where'd you get that? Singapore? Phuket? They do good work there, I'm told..."

"Calypso put it on me," Norrington broke in, visibly wincing at the memory. "She said it was...something to remember her by. My guess is it has something to do with my rapidly-approaching deadline."

"Ah?" Jack cocked his head, looking vaguely repulsed. "So, what, then. If you don't bring her the stone, she'll turn you into a dragon?"

Norrington gave a wry expression. "I highly doubt she'll be that generous."

He sighed, and looked at Jack with something like genuine pleading. "Jack. Please," he said, feeling as if it had cost him several chunks of his dignity to say the words. "You've already sold the stone. It has no value to you." He paused. "Just let me return it, and I'll have earned my freedom."

Jack shook his head sorrowfully. "You're not seeing the big picture here, mate." His expression became cunning. "If that bit of rock contains a piece of Her Tempestuous-ness, it must be worth something to her. So the man who holds it would possess a great deal of, shall we say, leverage." He raised his eyebrows. "Savvy?"

Norrington folded his arms. "And you're not afraid she'll come after you when she finds you've taken it?"

"Try and use your brain for once, can't you?" Norrington bristled at the insult as Jack went on, "If Calypso could come after the thingy herself, she wouldn't have sent you as her errand boy, now would she?"

Norrington glared at him. "I won't let you do this."

Jack took a step closer with his sword extended, pressing Norrington further back. "I can't see as you have any choice. Now, let's be civilized and avoid any regrettable incidents, shall we?" He held out his free hand. "The stone, please."

Suddenly, they both heard the clattering sound of approaching footsteps. Jack whirled in place, and Norrington took the opportunity to stuff the stone back in his pocket and draw his own sword. However, before he could take any further action, the door slammed open and what seemed like dozens of soldiers came pouring into the tiny shop.

Hemmed in by bristling bayonets, Norrington and Jack heard a voice from the crowd of soldiers say, "You are under arrest. Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air."

"Oh," Jack observed, dropping his sword with a clatter. "Bugger."

Mimicking his action, Norrington concurred dryly, "I couldn't have said it better myself."


	3. Chapter 3

Norrington lay wearily back against the iron bars that formed the wall of his cell. With a sense of dour amusement, he thought back on all the pirates and miscreants he'd personally incarcerated in these very cells. Wherever they were, whatever afterlife they were in, he was certain they were all sharing a hearty laugh at his expense.

He turned a disinterested gaze to his surroundings. A single sputtering torch lit the scene, the smell of its smoke thick and unpleasant in his nostrils. The cell itself smelled of damp iron and mildewy straw, and another odor strongly suggested someone had relieved himself in the far corner. The disagreeable atmosphere wasn't helped by the presence of his fellow prisoner, either.

Captain Sparrow had been placed in the adjoining cell, directly to the right of his. Jack paced up and down the length of the cell, gesturing and muttering to himself as if trying to work out some complicated equation. After a while, this pantomime began to grate on Norrington's nerves. "That hardly seems to be accomplishing much," he called.

Jack spun in place and stared at him, as if he'd forgotten the other man was there. Then his eyes narrowed. "Oh, pardon me, former Commodore," he sneered. "I'm sure _you _shall facilitate a jailbreak much more readily by simply lying about on your arse."

"Hmph." Norrington shook his head with bitter amusement. "Oh, but I would never presume to compete with _Captain_ Jack Sparrow in the matter of miraculous escapes."

Then Norrington's eyes narrowed at a recollection. "You were in these cells before, when you last came to Port Royal. You were sentenced to hang."

"Yes, on your order," Jack replied acidly. "Thanks ever so, by the way."

He ignored this, shifting position to sit up straighter. "Well, how did you escape then?"

Jack pulled back as if he'd touched something offensive. "Never mind," he retorted, looking shifty. "Besides," he went on, "you don't think I'd give away my best tricks in front of _you_, do you? Eh?" He seemed pleased by this logic, and returned to pacing and muttering.

Norrington shook his head and lay back again. "I think you have no idea what you're doing," he said, but neither expected nor received an answer. The pressure of the iron grid was uncomfortable against the back of his head and shoulders, but he couldn't be bothered to sit up.

He turned his gaze to the high, barred window as if some answer might lie there. A faint movement of air touched his skin, but the wind was warm and sticky, and brought no relief from the oppressive heat. No stars shone in the sky; the night had become overcast, the air thick and damp with the promise of a storm. It was hard to gauge what time it was, but he guessed it must be getting on past midnight. Norrington wondered if they'd be executed when dawn came. Then he wondered if he cared one way or the other.

Idly, he searched his pockets to see if the guards had left him anything useful. All he came up with was Calypso's wretched stone, for all the good it would do him. Having nothing else to do, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the stone, cupping it in his palm. The object was as unremarkable-looking as ever, although it felt somewhat colder than before. Norrington tossed it in the air and caught it again._ The only way this will help me escape,_ he told himself sourly, _is if I throw it at a guard and knock him unconscious. And even THAT'S not likely to work._

His thoughts were interrupted as he became aware that Sparrow was calling to him. "Oi, you. Back when these were rebuilt, you were still in charge here, were you not?"

Norrington was irritated by yet another reminder of how far he'd fallen from his former station in life. "What are you blathering about now?" he demanded, not bothering to look up.

"Last time, remember?" Jack had grasped the bars that separated their cells, and stuck his face between the bars as though he would squeeze himself through them. "This cell--" he pointed to where Norrington was sitting, "conveniently had its wall blown out by a stray cannon blast. While _this _cell--" He gestured back towards his own. "Inconveniently did not."

Norrington's patience was wearing thin as the air became thicker and hotter, making it hard to think. He could feel himself sweating beneath his heavy coat, and he clasped his hand around the black stone, grateful for its chilly touch against his skin. "Yes, I remember. What of it?"

"Well..." Jack looked as if his point should be blatantly obvious. "When you rebuilt, didn't you think to put in some sort of secret exit? You know," he went on as Norrington finally turned a narrow-eyed glare to him, "a way for you to get out should you ever find yourself locked in your own cells." He frowned and looked distant for a moment. "I keep forgetting to do that with the Pearl."

"Well, I'm sorry," Norrington replied acidly, hauling himself to his feet. "But I'm afraid I just don't think that way, _pirate_." A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance; he could feel the vibration through the soles of his boots.

"Clearly not," Jack sneered. "Once again, you display all the forethought of a tub full of cuttlefish, _former _Commodore."

"WILL you stop calling me that?" Norrington snapped, as a loud thunderclap sounded from close by, and the growing wind began to whistle through the window, mussing his hair.

"Why?" Jack retorted. "It _is _accurate, is it not?"

Norrington looked away sharply. Stifled rage was building up inside him, constricting his throat, as if it would choke him from the inside. "Yes, it's bloody _accurate_," he almost spat. "Thanks to you."

"What d'you mean?" Jack looked offended. "When have I ever forced you to do anything?" He glared at Norrington. "Face it, mate, you've always had it in for me. Ever since I pulled your wretched ex-fiancée out of the water while _you _stood around like a pillock."

Norrington's hands bunched into fists. "I was _about _to save her myself!"

"A likely story." Jack lounged against the bars with infuriating casualness. "And besides, what sort of lunatic tries to sail his ship through a bloody _hurricane_? I mean--"

__

"Every man on that ship died!"

A clap of thunder that had sounded under Norrington's outburst died away into reverberating echoes. Jack had gone quiet, seeming genuinely appalled. There was a long, tense silence before he finally said, "Oh."

"That's right," Norrington shot back. He strode forward, his fist clenched so tightly around the stone that the tendons showed along the back of his hand. "So I've had _enough _of you rubbing my face in my own failures, you miserable excuse for a pirate, as if I don't have enough reminders of--" He cut himself off, looking puzzled. "--what?"

Jack's expression had faltered at Norrington's approach, and he backed quickly away as the other advanced. The pirate's mouth opened and closed in succession, as if for once he was utterly at a loss for words.

Norrington glared at him. "What are you staring at?" he demanded, his voice low and deep in his throat.

"Aha," Jack replied uncertainly, leaning back with his hands raised as if faced with something repugnant, or potentially explosive. "Were you not aware your eyes were glowing, then?"

"What?" Norrington shook his head and blinked, feeling light-headed and odd. "What are you talking about?" he asked, confused.

"Nothing, nothing," Jack assured quickly, leaning forward and squinting at him. "Must've been a trick of the light, or some such." He still seemed rather nervous, but attempted an ingratiating smile. "I'm sure everything's perfectly all right, former Commodore."

White-hot rage ignited in Norrington's mind. "I _TOLD _YOU--!!"

That was when the wall exploded.

Norrington barely threw himself clear as a blast of lightning detonated the wall not four feet away from him. He flung himself down, hitting the floor hard as chunks of stone crashed down all around him. Blinded by the blast, seeing nothing but a white glare even through closed eyelids, he lay gasping and coughing as the afterglow died away. A few smaller chunks of stone struck his back and shoulders, causing him to grunt with pain.

Stunned and shaking, he waited a few moments more, trying to get his breath. The air was filled with choking dust, and he spit the taste of it out of his mouth as he struggled to his feet. However, he got his balance back quickly, and looked all around him, squinting to see through the swirling haze. Beyond a few minor cuts and scrapes, he seemed to be unharmed.

The outer wall of the cell had been reduced to rubble. Norrington could see the dark, cloud-covered sky through the gaping hole, feel the wind blowing hard against him. The blast seemed to have struck directly between the two cells, reducing the grid that separated them to a heap of twisted, steaming metal. Bits of the ceiling continued to drop and crumble all along the periphery of the hole, looking as if the entire roof might cave in at any moment. Norrington waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear the air as the wind gradually blew the dust away.

He tried to speak, coughed deeply, then tried again. "Sparrow?" he called. "Are you all r-"

Jack was spread out flat on his face, covered in dust, half-buried in rubble. He wasn't moving. He didn't appear to be breathing, either.

Norrington swore under his breath. Without thinking, he clambered over the twisted wreckage of the bars that had separated them, crouching down beside the motionless figure.

"Curse it," he muttered, wrestling away the larger chunks of stone that pinned Jack down. Then he flipped him over onto his back. A bright line of red blood cut across Jack's left cheek. "Why must you always be in the wrong place at the wrong time, you stupid--"

Jack's eyes snapped open, shockingly dark against the pale mask of dust that coated his face. He blinked several times, saw Norrington leaning over him, then let out a yell and scrambled away.

Norrington struggled to his feet, glaring at him. "What on Earth is wrong with you?" he snapped. "I was trying to help you!" He heard another rumble of thunder as he drew himself up. "Not that it earns me any gratitude, evidently!"

Jack was staring at him in outright horror, the wind rippling his hair and dust-covered clothes, a thin trickle of blood running from his cheek to his jawline. "You did this."

Norrington blinked. "What?"

Jack darted his gaze back and forth, gesturing towards the wreckage of the cell. Speaking slowly and incredulously, he repeated, "You. Did. _This_."

Norrington's pulse quickened. "Don't be absurd. I couldn't..."

His voice trailed off as his mind whispered, _But you did, you know..._

Jack's expression snapped into a manic grin. "Right! I'll be off, then. Ta!"

With that, he whirled in place and scrambled down the wreckage of the cell wall with breakneck speed, taking the final drop at a tumble and landing on his feet with all the grace of an acrobat. Without a second's hesitation, he took off at a dead run, and was soon lost from sight.

Norrington knew he should follow, that someone might be along to investigate the blast at any moment. But he could only stumble towards the demolished wall like a sleepwalker, swaying slightly as he grasped the crumbling wall for support. Numb with shock, he gazed out over the town of Port Royal, spread out before him, and slowly lifted his face to the sky.

The storm had come.

****

--

Every door and window in Port Royal was shut, barricaded against the storm. Black clouds blotted out the morning almost before it had come, plunging the town into eerie, dream-like shadow. The wind howled through the deserted streets, flinging leaves and debris before it, pulling flags and banners into rippling horizontal bars.

Norrington walked slowly through the town, moving with unsteady steps. Collapsing against a wall, he struggled to hold himself upright, blinking furiously as he tried to get his eyes to focus. Despite the darkness of the storm, everything he viewed seemed suffused with a white glare, as if lit from within. He felt feverish and half-drunk, his mind running slowly even as his body quivered with pent-up energy.

_What is happening to me?_ He pressed his sweating forehead against the rough stone of the wall, his chest tight and constricted as he struggled to breathe. He was vaguely aware that his right hand still gripped Calypso's stone, so tightly it seemed he could never unclench it again. Feeling desperately thirsty, he stumbled to a nearby trough, not caring how filthy it was. Cupping his hand, he greedily gulped down a mouthful of murky water. He took a deep breath of relief and wiped his sweating face with his damp hand, glancing down at the rippling water.

His distorted reflection stared back at him. Disbelieving, Norrington raised his hand to his face, running his fingers along the skin beneath his eyes. Both his eyes were glowing, featureless white orbs staring out from beneath his own eyelids. "What--?" he began in an appalled whisper.

Then he jerked his head up at the sound of a woman's scream, close by. Slitting his eyes as the wind shifted to blow in the direction of his gaze, he saw a hand reaching out in supplication from a narrow alley towards the end of the street. Then the woman's hand was roughly yanked back with a sound of raucous male laughter. Norrington forced himself to his feet, a surge of anger filling his mind as a sharp thundercrack sounded, seeming to come from directly overhead. He strode towards the alley and turned to look inside it.

A young woman, barely more than a girl, was pinned against the wall by two rough-looking men. "Please," she begged, as they laughed at her distress. "Please, I must get home, my mother..."

"Your mama can spare you some time for us, lovely," one of the men leered, waggling his tongue. "After all, we won't take long."

"Nah," the other agreed, moving a jagged knife along the skin of her throat as she struggled and sobbed. "You be a good girl for us, and we won't take long at all..."

_"Leave her alone."_

Some distant part of him was shocked by the voice that came from his own throat, but he was too blinded with fury to care. The two cutthroats whirled to face him, and their ugly faces dropped into twin expressions of shock. The one with the knife hesitated, then gave an incoherent snarl and rushed him, blade held high.

Norrington was barely aware of moving as he caught his attacker by the throat. He whirled around as if the man weighed nothing, slamming him against a wall with bone-rattling force. "Leave...her...alone," he ordered again, his voice little better than a growl. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other man roughly shove the girl to the ground, then draw his pistol, and take aim at his head.

It hardly even surprised him when lightning struck, blasting the gun-wielding man where he stood. The woman screamed and flung herself away, burying her face in her hands. The man's scorched body trembled upright for a moment, then fell with a heavy thump.

Slowly, Norrington released the man he'd been holding, and turned to gaze down at the dead man. He was peripherally aware that the thug he'd released was fleeing in stark terror, footsteps pounding away down the street and fading into silence.

He turned back, and saw the young woman he'd saved cowering away from him, scrabbling back against the alley wall as if she would claw her way through it to escape. Norrington's eyes stung against the wind as his expression grew stricken.

"I--I'm sorry," he stammered. His voice sounded normal in his ears, but how long would that last? "I only wanted to help..."

He turned away sharply, shutting his eyes again, pressing his palm against his face. One man lay dead before him, and for all he knew, this innocent girl might well be next.

He raised his gaze to her and whispered, "Run." She didn't move; fear held her paralyzed.

"RUN!" he snarled, the sound underscored by a loud thundercrack. Finally, she took to her heels, her long skirts whipping in the gale, dark hair streaming behind her like a banner.

Norrington raised his face to the heavens, feeling the wind against his face, his clothes and hair rippling all around him. His pulse thudded loud and heavy in his ears, heart pounding with the rhythm of the storm.

He closed his eyes again. _What have I become?_ he begged silently, not knowing who he asked.

"What have I _become_?" he whispered aloud, opening his eyes and staring up at the black, roiling sky. The clouds swirled and surged overhead, turning in a slow, ponderous circle, with the point where he stood as the very center.

The eye of the hurricane.

He remembered the wind, the rain, the lightning. He remembered the madness that had filled him then, the heedless passion, the selfish need to triumph at all costs. He knew that if these feelings consumed him, there would be blood on his hands yet again.

Some part of him screamed and raged against his own downfall. Another part of him welcomed it.

He turned his gaze to the streets around him, and his eyes glowed with an inhuman power and will. If it was his purpose to bring death into the world, if he was no more than an instrument of the powers of destruction, then at least this time he would choose who would live and who would die.

His smile was terrifying.

He knew where he had to go.

****

--

The door of the tavern opened, and four shabbily-dressed figures stumbled out of the door and into the storm, as if they'd been forcibly shoved out. Which was, in fact, exactly what had happened.

They all turned to gaze back at the door as it was slammed in their collective faces, followed by a sound like a bolt sliding into place. Pintel bellowed at it, "AND your beer tasted like horse piss, too!"

Ragetti plopped his wooden eye back into its socket, then swiveled it back and forth to get it straight. He was sporting a large, darkening bruise on the side of his face, making it fairly evident how the eye had gotten out in the first place. "That wasn't polite at all," he whined to no one in particular. "Honestly, what's the world coming to when folks can't even enjoy a simple game of cards?"

Adjusting his hat and tucking his unruly hair back beneath it, Mullroy gingerly touched his jaw and winced at the swelling he found there. "You know," he observed to his companion, "there are times when I wonder if turning pirate was really the best decision we ever made."

Murtogg nodded. "Right. I mean, aye, matey." He raised his head and squinted up at the black, seething heavens. He shuddered. "This storm's unnatural, comin' on so sudden-like." He glanced nervously at his companions. "It's an evil omen, mark my words!"

A low, level voice from behind them replied, "Consider them marked."

The four of them whirled in place, fumbling for their weapons. Then they froze, gawking, at the sight that met their eyes.

Norrington stood in the center of the wide, open courtyard, surrounded by the stone walls of the fortress. His ragged clothes guttered around him in the wind, his unbound dark hair whipping across his face. Eyes glowing with power, he held up his clenched right fist, crackling and seething with energy.

He was smiling.

They stared at him in silence for what seemed a very long time.

Then Murtogg raised a hand gingerly. "Um...parlay?"

Norrington didn't move a muscle as a lightning strike detonated a barrel not ten feet away from where the pirates cowered. It exploded into flames, sending them yelling and ducking for cover.

Murtogg scrambled behind an overturned wheelbarrow, shouting, "Told you that was the Commodore!"

Pintel turned back from pounding on the locked doors of the tavern just long enough to bellow, "Well, what did you do to put him in such a foul mood?!"

"Silence," Norrington commanded. "All of you." He could practically smell their fear; it was intoxicating, maddening. He felt as if some vile poison was coursing through his veins, eating away at his soul. Part of him fought against it. Another part never wanted it to end.

"Scum like you make me sick," he sneered at the cringing Pintel and Ragetti. "Your mothers ought to have drowned you at birth."

Ragetti looked offended and protested, "Here, you leave me mum out of this!" but was silenced as Pintel punched him hard in the shoulder.

"And you." Norrington turned his attention to Murtogg and Mullroy, who cowered away as if his very gaze would set them aflame. "Deserted your commissions. Turned pirate. Betrayed everything you once stood for." His lip curled in a sneer. "I'd kill you if you didn't remind me of myself."

Murtogg slowly raised a trembling hand. "If I may, sir," he began meekly. "There were some extenuating circumstances involved..."

_"Enough!"_ A blast of lightning tore across the sky, casting the scene in stark, blinding highlights. Slowly, he raised the stone high over his head. "Gentlemen, this is a day you will always remember..."

Some instinct made him move sharply to the left as a gunshot whizzed past his right ear, burying itself in the tavern wall. Ragetti squawked and dropped to the ground as the shot missed him by inches. Norrington whirled in place, and saw Barbossa and Anamaria behind him, moving slowly in opposite directions to flank him. Each of them held two pistols, one in each outstretched hand. One of Barbossa's was smoking.

Barbossa was the first to speak, his tone level and businesslike as the brim of his hat flapped wildly in the gale. "There be another where that came from, Mister Norrington." Barbossa's monkey clung desperately to his shoulder, gripping with its tiny hands and shivering in fear.

"Aye!" Anamaria snapped, her eyes flashing with anger as her long black hair streamed out behind her. "And whatever you be, I doubt you'll ignore a shot to the head!"

Norrington gave a cold smile. "Are you certain of that, miss?"

"Enough." Barbossa raised his pistols higher. "Now begone from this place, or--"

Without warning, the hurricane wind flung Barbossa and Anamaria off their feet, sending them flying backwards. They both hit the walls hard enough to knock their weapons from their grasp. The monkey shrieked and jumped up and down in a frenzy as its master slumped down bonelessly against the wall. Dazed, Anamaria shook her head as if to rouse herself, then swore out loud and scrambled for her weapons.

"Don't," Norrington growled, raising his clenched right fist in Barbossa's direction. "Or I'll kill him."

Glaring daggers at him, she slowly stood up and backed away from the guns. On the other side of the courtyard, Barbossa groaned and rubbed the back of his head, painfully rising to his feet.

Apparently drawn by the noise, the tavern door opened a crack and someone from within peered out. Whoever was inside clearly got a good look at the situation, as the door was immediately slammed shut, the bolt locked again, and there was a scraping noise from within, as of someone moving something very large and heavy against the inside of the door.

"You all right, Captain?" Ragetti called with concern, darting a fearful gaze towards Norrington as if wondering whether he should've asked permission to speak.

"Aye," Barbossa replied, dusting himself off with a dark look towards Norrington. "But if these circumstances be Jack's doing, remind me to kill him myself."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, old friend," a voice came from behind.

All heads turned as Jack Sparrow strolled into view, each step of his boots clearly audible even over the howling gale. The wind was making it hard going for him, but he still managed to walk with a casual saunter, as if he was out for a pleasant evening's stroll.

Norrington's eyes slitted. _"You."_

"Me," Jack acknowledged, stopping some distance away. He rose to the tips of his toes and spread his arms, leaning into the wind, letting it support his weight. "Ah!" he declared in apparent delight, as his dreadlocked hair rippled behind him. "Just like flying, eh?"

Hatred throbbed inside Norrington's skull. "I should kill you right now."

Jack settled his heels back on the ground, then raised his hands palms out in a gesture of non-aggression. "Unarmed, mate."

Norrington's face twisted in an ugly grin. "Then that was your last mistake."

Jack shrugged. "Well, figured weapons wouldn't do much good anyway, after watching Hector here make a botch job of things." A casual wave of his hand indicated Barbossa, whose silent fuming indicated that Jack would pay dearly for that remark, assuming they both survived the night.

"Besides," Jack went on, looking directly into his opponent's eyes, "you won't kill a defenseless man in cold blood, will you." It was a statement, not a question.

Norrington's face reflected the war in his mind. _Kill him, _said the pounding waves of rage battering his soul. _Kill him, blast him to ashes, make him pay for what he's done. _But another part of himself was screaming to be heard over the mad din in his head: _You are not a murderer! No matter what you are, what you've become, you are not a murderer!_

His left fist clenched and unclenched spasmodically as he fought to get hold of himself. His head jerked sharply to one side, like a nervous twitch. "Sparrow," he ground out through clenched teeth, "you are the absolute bane of my existence."

The pirate spread his hands with a modest smile. "You see, James--may I call you James?" Jack didn't wait for an answer, but continued: "I've been giving things a good bit of thought. And I have concluded--" He raised a forefinger, then pointed at the stone in Norrington's hand. "--that I did _not_, in fact, steal that rather problematic piece of rock from Tia Dalma."

Norrington's confusion must have shown on his face, as Jack clarified, "That'd be Calypso, to you."

"You're lying," Norrington growled, his voice barely recognizable even to himself. "You had it on the Pearl. I saw you give it to her." He indicated Anamaria with a jerk of his head.

"Yes, but no." Jack raised his right hand as if taking an oath. "Sworn truth, that stone was not on my ship until _after _you came aboard."

Norrington stared at him. "That's impossible."

"I believe perhaps you've been looking at this wrong since the very beginning," Jack went on, indicating the stone with a gesture. "I don't think that thing's a piece of Calypso." He paused, and fixed Norrington with a calm, direct stare.

"I think it's a piece of _you_."

Barbossa shouted from the far wall, "What madness be this, Jack?" He was barely managing to hold his hat on in the gale. "This man ne'er showed such powers before!"

"That's right, he didn't!" Murtogg piped up, with Mullroy vigorously nodding his assent. "Honestly, we'd have noticed!"

Jack shrugged. "Well, granted, maybe Calypso made things a bit more interesting. Added a little spice to the stew, as it were. But still..."

Norrington interrupted, with a thunderclap that sent Barbossa's monkey fleeing behind his back, "That's insane. Why would she do that to me?"

"Who knows?" Jack spread his hands in an expansive gesture. "Cruelty? Whim? An overdeveloped sense of fun? But the point is--"

Norrington cut him off. "_Enough_." The walls of the fortress shook. His eyes narrowed to dangerous, white-hot slits. "If you have any last words, Sparrow, you'd better say them now."

"Oh, all right." Jack acted like his imminent obliteration was merely a minor inconvenience. "Hate for my last words to be about _you_, but..." He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, then said, "You see, I think I've got you figured, James."

Norrington glowered at him. "Indeed."

"Aye." Jack began to pace in a wide circle around Norrington, who turned slowly in place to follow his motion. "I think when you tell yourself you're the finest champion of His Majesty's Navy, then that's what you are."

He spun on his heels and marched in the other direction. "When you tell yourself you're a raggedy-arsed rum-sodden deck rat, then _that's _what you are."

Jack spun about again, and actually began to pace right up to Norrington, straight into the eye of the storm. "And when you tell yourself you're this evil, inhuman, destructive _thing _what brings devastation to all around you..."

Jack stopped and leaned in, looking Norrington straight in the eye. "...that, I think, is what you are _becoming_."

There was silence for a long time, broken only by the roar of the wind. No one moved, no one spoke. Norrington stood like a statue, staring at nothing as the towering black clouds turned in a slow, ponderous circle high above his head. Finally, his impassive visage broke, and he trembled as he lowered his white-eyed gaze to the ground.

"I..." Norrington faltered. "You don't...you don't understand. I killed them." He turned his gaze to Jack again, his face twisted with rage and self-loathing. "The crew of the Dauntless. Everyone who died under Beckett's rule. It was my fault."

Norrington shook his head violently, as if trying to throw something off. "All those people. All those deaths." He clenched his fist even tighter, power crackling around it. "It was my _fault_!"

Jack didn't so much as flinch. "You didn't create that hurricane, James," he observed calmly. "Didn't force anyone to sail with you, didn't tell Beckett to do what he did." He tilted his head slightly, and said with a daring trace of mockery, "Methinks you give yourself too much credit."

"I..." Norrington turned his gaze to the stone he still gripped in his hand. "I can't..."

Jack took another step closer, then another. Almost nonchalantly, he went on, "Someone once told me that one good deed wasn't enough to redeem a lifetime of wickedness." He paused, and raised his eyebrows slightly. "But maybe a few bad decisions aren't enough to condemn him, either."

Jack's face became serious again. His voice almost a whisper, he leaned in and said, "Let it _go_, mate."

They locked stares for a moment, dark eyes meeting glowing white. Norrington was the first to look away, and stared down at the stone in his hand.

All the world seemed to hold its breath. A few drops of rain began to fall, the pattering sound loud in the sudden silence.

Then, with an inhuman scream of rage, Norrington whirled in place and blasted away the wall behind him.

Chunks of stone flew everywhere, sending the onlookers running for cover with shouts and curses. Norrington barely heard them, was hardly aware of anything as he began to run.

He ran as if his heart would burst, breath heaving in his chest, cold raindrops stinging his face. His boots beat a rhythm against the ground, footsteps splashing in the growing puddles as the rain became a downpour. Finally, the hard ground beneath his feet gave way to sand, then to mud. Without realizing it, but knowing somehow that it had been his destination all along, he had reached the sea.

Norrington collapsed to his knees. The tide rushed away from him, as if repelled by his presence. His chest heaving with every breath, he raised his stricken face to the ocean.

A huge wave was headed right for him. Then, before it could crash over the beach, it drew back and reared up before him, towering over his head. The figure of a woman formed within it, her shape translucent and rippling, made of water turned solid. Norrington couldn't tell if her smile was one of pity, or contempt.

"Calypso," he rasped through his parched throat. He raised his rain-streaked face to her, glaring in rage and accusation. "Why?" he demanded, his words underscored by thunder. "Why did you do this to me?"

The figure shrugged, and spoke in the rushing, crashing voice of a thousand waves. _"It is my nature."_

Shaking violently, rain streaming down his face, soaking through his tattered clothes, Norrington looked straight up at the sky. He almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all. Then he looked back towards Calypso, raising the fist that still held the terrible stone. "What is this?" he demanded, voice shaking with fury. "Did you create it just to torture me? To turn me into this monster?"

The watery figure put her head slightly to one side. _"I only give the t'ing a shape, Jemms Norrington,"_ she replied, sounding haughtily amused. _"YOU create it."_

His shoulders rose and fell with every rasping breath. He glared at his clenched fist, willing his hand to open. He couldn't do it; his fingers wouldn't separate so much as an inch. "Then how do I get rid of it?" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the storm of his own making. "How do I...?"

He trailed off. For a moment, he knelt in silence, the truth slowly dawning in his mind. His voice became a whisper. "...let it go?"

Calypso made no answer. Norrington stared in hollow despair at the seething, crackling thing in his fist. Finally, he understood what the black stone was. It was his pride, his arrogance, his willful certainty that only he knew what was right. It was the irrational hatred and prejudice that had transformed his hunger for justice into a lust for vengeance. It was the heedless ambition and need to prove himself that had blinded him to the consequences of his own choices.

It was his own darkness, given shape and form...and more power than he could ever hope to control.

Norrington squeezed his eyes shut as the pain and grief he'd held back for so long came crashing down on him. He remembered the hurricane that had destroyed his ship, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He remembered the guilt and self-loathing that had driven him as low as a man could sink, remembered how his desperate gambit to redeem himself had only resulted in more deaths.

He remembered his own words: _I prefer to see it as the promise of redemption._

He opened his eyes. "I..." he began, and his voice cracked with grief as a bone-deep weariness washed over him. He slumped down in the damp sand, shoulders sagging, arms hanging limply at his sides. He felt drained, empty. And when he spoke again, his voice was a low, aching whisper.

"I'm sorry," he said, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. His head fell forward, hanging low against his chest. "I'm _sorry_."

His fist opened, and the black stone tumbled from his grasp. It rolled a few inches across the wet sand, then cracked open like an egg. A wisp of black smoke escaped it with a faint hiss, then the stone crumbled into ashes, and was washed away by the tide.

The white glare that had suffused his vision faded away, and he knew he was looking through human eyes once more. The fire in his veins ebbed and faded, and he felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, one he'd never known he carried until it had been taken away.

Norrington opened his tear-filled eyes and stared up into the eyes of the goddess, rain and sea spray washing his face clean. For a moment, her face was an impassive mask.

Then she smiled.

_"At last,"_ she said.

The woman's figure disappeared into the wave as it surged up, towering over him. The top crested into roiling white foam as it dropped, covering Norrington in its shadow, rushing down towards him. He made no move to flee, but watched it coming, accepting whatever fate awaited him with neither fear nor regret.

The wave crashed down on him, lifting him up, spinning him round in its featureless depths. He could no longer tell up from down as the roar of the water filled his ears. As his consciousness faded, Norrington could have sworn he felt a woman's strong arms around him, felt her kissing him, deep and hard.

Then darkness took him, and he knew nothing more.


	4. Chapter 4

Slowly, Norrington began to realize he might still be alive.

However, as his thoughts returned, he asked himself how he could be certain. He reasoned that he still had a mind with which to ask himself questions, so obviously something of himself still existed. He could also feel a hard surface beneath his back, and a gentle rising and falling as if he was on board a ship. He heard the sound of distant waves and smelled the brine of the sea. Also, his stomach rumbled with hunger, and it seemed a foregone conclusion that the dead felt no need to eat. All these sensations strongly implied that he was, indeed, still counted among the living.

_Still, _he decided, _after these past few days, there's no cause to leap to conclusions._ It seemed there was nothing for it but to open his eyes and have a look. He did so, and found himself gazing up at a ceiling that seemed depressingly familiar.

Glancing around, he saw exactly what he'd expected. He was indeed on board the Black Pearl. Judging from the bright sunlight that shone through a knothole in the hull opposite him, it had to be mid-morning, at least. He was also surrounded by walls made of dark iron bars.

He stretched and yawned widely, then grumbled to himself. "The brig." His stomach gave another insistent rumble, and he wondered how long it had been since his last meal. "_Why _am I in the brig again?" he asked aloud.

His attention was attracted by movement; something had ducked out of sight beyond the wall of the cell, where the stairs led above decks. Slowly, a single dark eye peeked around the corner, blinked several times, then ducked back again.

Norrington rubbed his eyes. "Good morning, Captain Sparrow," he sighed. He looked around. "It is morning, isn't it?"

Jack peered around the corner again, slitting his eyes in suspicion. "So," he demanded, "are you evil, or not?"

Norrington sighed again. "How on Earth would I know?" Slowly, he sat up on the narrow cot, wincing slightly at a pain in his lower back. He clenched and unclenched his right hand; his fingers still felt slightly numb. Squinting in the light, he called towards the stairs, "Why don't you annoy me some more and we'll find out?"

Jack stepped into full view, his expression dubious. "You're dressed different."

"Am I?" Norrington looked down at himself with detached interest. His hands were clean; the dirt and grime that had coated them seemed to have been washed away. His formerly ragged clothes looked as if they'd been newly tailored; his shirt was white and crisp, his boots brightly polished. His coat bore no trim or insignia, but its former faded blue was now a deep, watery blue-green that was almost translucent, pale green where the light struck it, deepest indigo in the shadows.

"Hmm," Norrington observed, not really knowing what to think. He ran a hand across his face and over his head. He was still unshaven and his hair was shaggy and poorly cut, but felt like it had been washed, at least. "Well, I'm forced to admit your observations are accurate." He paused. "For once."

"Don't get cheeky," Jack snapped. He drew himself up and affected an arrogant air. "After all, I _am _captain of this ship."

"Are you? One can never tell." Looking up, Norrington went on, "Were you planning to release me? Or shall I settle back with a cup of tea and a good book while you decide?"

Jack looked down his nose at him. "Clearly your brush with godlike power hasn't improved your manners much." He made Norrington wait just long enough to make his point, then produced a jangling ring of keys and unlocked the door.

Norrington hesitated a moment, then stood up and approached the door. Jack gave him a haughty glare as if reminding him who was currently in charge of his fate, then stepped aside to let him out. "On deck, if you please."

"Aye-aye, Captain," he replied with a half-smirk. As he started to ascend the stairs with Jack behind him, he called back, "So perhaps you could explain why I find myself on this ship yet again?" He darted a glance over his shoulder. "Did Calypso bring me here?"

Jack opened his mouth and raised a forefinger as if to say yes, but instead said, "No." As they reached the top of the stairs, the pirate gestured forward. "Behold."

The deck of the Pearl lay before him beneath a pristine blue sky, out on the open ocean. Beside her was anchored another ship: the Flying Dutchman. Norrington could see members of the Dutchman's crew walking amongst those of the Pearl. Up towards the bow, Barbossa stood in conversation with Bootstrap, both men looking solemn and somewhat uncomfortable.

As he emerged on deck, Pintel and Ragetti, who'd been gathering in a rope on the port side, drew away from him with suspicious glares. Ragetti raised his hands and crossed his index fingers in a warding-off-evil gesture. Norrington only chuckled at this.

Just beyond them, Murtogg and Mullroy saw him coming, looked at one another, then drew themselves to some semblance of attention. He shook his head sadly. "Not to me, gentlemen," he said. "Not any more."

They looked at one another. "You all right, then, sir?" Murtogg asked hesitantly.

Norrington hesitated, then nodded. "I think so. Thank you." He looked at them both in turn. "Good fortune to you both."

Then he turned his attention to the center of the ship. Up ahead, standing beside the mast, was a young man Norrington recognized all too well.

Walking around past Norrington, Jack broke into a broad grin. "Ah, William!" he greeted in apparent delight. "I was just telling James here how you delivered him from a watery grave. Again."

Despite the cheerfulness of Jack's greeting, Will faced him with a dark scowl. With some confusion, Norrington noticed that the deck around the entire mast was liberally covered with dirt, leaving only a small circle of clear space in which Will stood.

Norrington walked towards him, his boots crunching on the dirt. Will glanced down towards the sound, and his expression grew even more resentful. "And how did you manage to accomplish this, again?" Norrington asked.

Will looked up, and visibly attempted to look solemn and mysterious. "The Dutchman sailed for Port Royal last night," he explained. Seemingly without thinking, he made as if to step forward, then jerked back with a grimace. Looking up at Norrington again, he went on with a wry expression, "Your storm got our attention."

Norrington turned away in embarrassment. "Ah. Well." He looked back at Will with a rather sheepish grin. "So sorry about that."

Jack came sauntering between them, ignoring Will's fuming expression. "Quite a lot of dirt around here, isn't there," he observed idly. He gracefully bent over and picked up a pinch of it, rubbing it between two fingers. "Remind me to have a word with the maid."

Will looked like he was on the verge of making several highly uncomplimentary observations when Norrington spoke again. "Any sign of Calypso?" he asked, a bit nervously.

Will shook his head. "None." He looked as if he would say more, but Jack broke in.

"Guess she got bored with you, mate," he observed, grinning. "Decided to find herself a new toy, as it were."

"Hmm." Norrington looked down at the center of his chest, and drew aside the flap of his shirt. The dragon mark was still there, but was now a pure emerald green, the color bright and strong against his skin. "One thing still puzzles me, though." He rubbed at the mark; sure enough, it remained a permanent part of him. "Why a _dragon_, exactly?"

Jack cocked his head to one side. "Perhaps because they're big, ill-tempered, dim-witted, massively destructive and have absolutely no sense of humor." He gave a mischievous grin. "Seems to sum you up quite nicely."

Norrington turned and raised his eyebrows. "Are you quite certain I have no powers left, Captain Sparrow?"

Jack's smile dropped away. "Fine," he muttered. Then he added with an air of one-upmanship, "But you only prove my point about the 'no sense of humor'."

Will broke in, as if growing impatient with this banter, "I need to return to my ship." He looked towards Norrington. "Will you be coming aboard?"

With a grimace of distaste, Norrington pointed at the mast. "Not _that _way," he retorted. "I'd rather take a ride on another runaway mill wheel."

Jack waved a hand. "Oh, we can run you across, don't worry. Happy to oblige." He looked politely towards Will, placing his palms together with a slight bow. "Not staying for a drink, then? I have some perfectly marvelous rum in my cabin..." He gestured towards it, and seemed astonished to realize that the deck's coating of dirt ran all the way to the cabin door. "Oh, sorry."

Norrington got the distinct feeling he was missing something as Will aimed a glare of deepest loathing towards Jack, then turned and vanished into the mast with as much dignity as he could muster. Norrington saw the rest of the Dutchman crew taking their leave of the Pearl; a long plank was maneuvered into place between the two craft, and they began to walk back to their own ship.

Glancing back towards the bow, he saw Barbossa hand an expensive-looking bottle of wine towards Bootstrap. The older seaman seemed inclined to refuse it. But although his expression suggested he was parting with his dearest treasure, Barbossa pressed it forward insistently. Finally, Bootstrap accepted with a nod of acknowledgement, and turned to depart. Meeting Norrington's gaze for a moment, he flashed a brief smile, then climbed aboard the plank and walked away.

Finally, Norrington was the only one left. He turned a slow gaze all around him, wondering if he'd ever see this ship again, and whether he wanted to or not. "So," he said into the awkward moment. "This is goodbye."

Jack paused, then nodded. "Yep."

"Well." For a moment, the two former adversaries regarded one another in uncomfortable silence. Finally, Norrington demanded, "Did you mean all that, what you said?"

"What I said when? What?" Jack asked in evident confusion.

Norrington hesitated, unsure how to phrase things. "Back when you said it wasn't my fault, that I shouldn't blame myself for everything that happened." He narrowed his eyes. "You didn't mean it, did you?"

Jack's eyes darted to and fro. "Nah," he finally said. "Not a word, mate. Just said that to get you to stop blowing things up."

"Ah, I thought so." Norrington nodded, folding his arms. "Because otherwise, one might almost draw the conclusion that we were somehow _friends_."

"Blah." Jack stuck his tongue out as if he'd tasted something horrible. "Of course not. Revolting thought."

"Absolutely. Couldn't agree more."

They fell silent again, then Norrington held out his right hand. Jack looked down at it uncertainly for a moment, then grasped it and gave it a firm shake.

Then Jack withdrew his hand and gave a broad smile. "Now, if you would be so kind, Mister Norrington..." He gave an expansive wave of his hand. "...get the bloody hell off my ship."

Norrington cracked a smile and inclined his head in gracious acknowledgement. "By your leave, Captain Sparrow." Then he turned and walked away, not looking back.

****

--

Some time later, Norrington stood on the deck of the Flying Dutchman. He leaned over the railing, enjoying the feel of the wind. A few gulls circled in the distance, and he was reminded of Calypso. Somehow, he knew she was done with him, and he would never see her again. _At least not in her human form, _he mentally added with a wry expression. He supposed he'd never know why she'd given him a second chance at life, and the opportunity to slay his own demons. After all, it wasn't as if she owed him anything...

Apparently for no reason, a series of images flashed through his mind. He saw himself shooting the rope between Jones' Dutchman and the Chinese ship Elizabeth had somehow become captain of. He saw Elizabeth holding a dangling metal token of some kind, saw it placed in a bowl full of junk--a playing card, a broken bottle, a bent pair of glasses. And he saw the bowl set afire, the objects burning away into nothing...

Blinking, Norrington shook his head to clear the unwanted images. "What was that all about?" he asked himself in bewilderment. Obviously, he concluded, his recent experiences had taken more of a toll on him than he'd realized. _All I want in the world right now is a good meal, and a decent night's sleep..._

He looked over his shoulder at a sound of approaching footsteps. "Captain," he acknowledged with neither resentment nor irony.

Will nodded, then gave a slightly mocking smile. "If you're worried, I promise this ship won't submerge while you're still on it."

Norrington gave a slight chuckle. "Your thoughtfulness is most appreciated." Then he yawned. "Oh. My apologies."

"No need." Blandly, he added, "I know how you mortals get."

Norrington shook his head sadly, but couldn't hold back a smile. There was silence for a few moments before Will spoke again.

"You know," he began, leaning back against the railing and propping himself up with his elbows, "when Davy Jones' curse was broken and the crew were freed, some of them couldn't get off this ship fast enough." He paused, looking up at the billowing sails. "But I was surprised by how many of them chose to stay."

Will looked sideways at Norrington. "They said they wanted a chance to redeem themselves. To try and make up for the evil they'd done under Jones' command."

Norrington gave him a slightly haughty look. "Are you offering me a _job_, Captain Turner?" he asked dryly. "One hundred years before the mast, and all that?"

Will laughed. "No, no, nothing like that." Then his expression turned serious. "But should you find yourself in need of a place to go..."

Pondering in silence, Norrington gazed out over the waves for some time. Finally, he said, "Perhaps I'm not ready to serve under another's command just yet." He looked back at Will and added in serious tones, "But thank you."

Seeming to take no offense, Will nodded. "My offer stands, should you ever change your mind. But in the meantime..." His expression turned awkward, reminding Norrington of the gawky young lad he'd once been. "If you have no destination in mind, I was wondering if you'd stop and...ah...deliver something for me."

Norrington sighed. "Why do I get the feeling I'm going to regret this? It's not a cursed gold medallion, is it?"

"No, it's...it's this." A bit clumsily, Will handed over a folded piece of paper sealed with a blot of red wax. Norrington turned it over, and read the name written in bold, somewhat inelegant strokes on the front.

"Oh," he said, quietly.

****

--

epilogue.

Night had fallen on the coastal town as a man slowly made his way up from the shore, where a small boat lay upon the sand. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the Flying Dutchman far off from shore. As he watched, it surged forward, then disappeared into the night with a faint green flash.

Norrington turned back and continued to make his way up the winding dirt path that led from the beach to a small, cozy cottage. A faint trace of smoke rose from the chimney as the windows glowed warm against the night. Stopping before the door, Norrington paused a moment to compose himself, then pulled his tricorn hat low over his forehead and rapped sharply at the door.

After a few moments, the door opened a crack, and a young woman peered at him with some suspicion. "Yes?"

Norrington glanced down. He couldn't see it, but could tell by her position that she was holding a pistol just out of his sight, ready to raise into place should she require it. _Well done, Elizabeth, _he thought with genuine approval.

He began, "Miss Sw--" Then he caught himself. "Mrs. Turner?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, clearly not trusting strangers who came knocking at her door in the middle of the night. "What do you want?"

"I--" He hesitated, and kept his head lowered, trying not to look her in the eye. "I come on behalf of your husband." Elizabeth's mouth opened in surprise as he went on, "He gave me these."

Norrington held out the letter and a package, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with silver ribbon. She exclaimed, "Will!" Then she flung the door open and snatched them up like a starving person would grab a loaf of bread.

Norrington smiled, a bit sadly. "He sends his love," he said. Then he glanced down at her slightly rounded belly and added quietly, "To you both."

She looked up, the letter half-open in her hand, and stared at him intently. He went on, "If you have anything to send him in return, I can..."

Suddenly, her eyes flew open wide. "James?" she gasped. "James, is that you?"

Elizabeth took a step forward, but he held up a hand to forestall her. As she stopped, he lifted his head so she could get a clear view of his face.

But he insisted, "You must be mistaken, Mrs. Turner." He shook his head with a sad smile. "James Norrington is dead."

There was silence between them for a moment. Finally, Elizabeth looked at him skeptically and asked, "Then who are you?"

At that, Norrington broke into a broad grin, the most genuine smile he'd made in ages. "You know, I have absolutely no idea." He lowered his head slightly and added, with a conspiratorial air, "But I'm certain I shall find out."

Leaving Elizabeth puzzled, he bowed to her in farewell. Without another word, he turned and slowly walked down the winding path leading to the sea, and disappeared into the darkness.


End file.
